


stay where it is perfect

by floodonthefloor



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Artist Clarke, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Lots of Angst, Modern AU, and maybe with a happy ending ;), violinist lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floodonthefloor/pseuds/floodonthefloor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why did you leave.” Her eyes are bleak, tired. She knew the facade would break sooner or later - but not this soon.<br/>“Clarke, it’s 3 in the morn -”<br/>“Why did you leave me alone in my bed. Do you know what that did to me?”<br/>"Clarke." Lexa says her name as if it is a whispered prayer, a name too sacred to say any louder. She stands in her doorway, clad in a t-shirt and pyjama shorts, and Clarke is slightly shivering outside from the cold. "I was so scared. Please. I'm sorry."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pull out your heart to make the  
> being alone  
> easy.

**3 Years Ago**

It’s July 2010, and Clarke Griffin is just about to start her twelfth year at high school. Everything has been going well thus far; she gets along with everyone in her year, her Facebook page for her art has just hit 700 likes, prospects for the school she wants to go to are looking bright, and her grades are very, very high. “Smooth sailing,” as she calls it.

 

Right now, her and her best friend, Lexa Woods, are going on their last bike-ride of the summer break down to Valley Lake. This summer has consisted of hardly anything but bike-rides, smoking pot, painting, and going to the occasional party or two. Clarke can hardly complain, but she’s ready to go back to school and finally work towards graduating. Lexa is not doing badly for herself, either - already one of the most talented young violinists in their city, she has scholarships lined up and ready for her for when she graduates. "It's pretty alright," as she calls it.

 

Clarke sparks up a joint the minute they get there, sitting cross-legged near the water. Lexa leans her bike up against a tree and sits next to her, reaching for the joint once she takes a hit and takes a drag of it, herself.

 

“Year twelve,” Clarke murmurs, blowing smoke out into the air. Whatever strain Clarke has bought must be strong, because she can already feel the familiar, pleasant light-headedness. “Think it’ll be horrendously difficult?”

 

Lexa shakes her head. “We’ve been keeping up fairly well, haven’t we?”

 

“I guess.”

 

Clarke sees Lexa glance at her through her peripheral view, and she knows that Lexa is not convinced. It's always been an issue with them - there are never any secrets when it comes to emotions between the two of them.

 

Lexa speaks. “What’s on your mind?”

 

Clarke shrugs, holding smoke in her lungs for a longer period than usual, then exhales deeply. “I don’t know. I’m worried for post-graduation. And success. Whatever it is that entails.”

 

Lexa leans back on her hands, watching Clarke speak. “I understand. But you’ll be fine. You’re going to be a famous artist.”

 

Smiling sheepishly, Clarke passes the joint back to Lexa. “You really think so?”

 

“Tell you what,” Lexa says, “If you aren’t famous by the time you’re twenty, I’ll plug your art when I'm a famous violinist, and playing in the Philharmonic, or something.”

 

Clarke snorts, looking out to the water. “And if I _am_  famous?”

 

“You plug my violin artistry to all of your adoring fans.” Lexa puts out the joint, placing the last half into a Ziploc bag and laying it on the ground beside her.

 

Clarke gently poke Lexa's side, causing her to jump in surprise.

 

“ _Ah!_ Wha –“

 

“Lexa Woods,” Clarke says, a mischievous grin on her face as she reaches to start tickling Lexa, “Next on Oprah, we’ve got America's fiddle-playing sweetheart performing a song for us. Cue the cheering fans. The fanfare. Indoor fireworks.”

 

Lexa starts to giggle uncontrollably. She seizes Clarke’s arms, trying to get them away from her, but Clarke is relentless. “Please! Stop!”

 

“How does it feel to be famous, Lexa?” Clarke continues, and the two end up wrestling in the grass, Lexa starting to go red with laughter, Clarke chuckling away at the torture of it all. “When are you playing a solo next? Is it true that you’re dating James McAvoy? Wouldn’t you say he’s a bit too old for you?”

 

“I yield!” Lexa yells, rolling away from Clarke. “I yield!”

 

Maybe it’s the weed, maybe they’re stressed silly about school starting again, but the two can’t stop laughing, both on their backs, holding their stomachs. Clarke is incredibly pleased with the development of their friendship in just three years - her and Lexa had met halfway through their ninth year, when Lexa had just transferred schools. They’ve been inseparable ever since. It would be impossible to find one without the other.

 

Lexa rolls to face Clarke, wiping tears from her eyes. “I’m a little insulted,” she says breathlessly, “James McAvoy? Really? He's so old.”

 

“He has…nice eyes,” Clarke says, positioning herself so that she’s facing Lexa. “I dunno. It was the first name that came to mind. I watched Atonement last night.”

 

“Either way, he’s almost thirty.”

 

“Age is but a number.”

 

“You’re full of it.”

 

“You love me.” Clarke smirks.

 

"I guess."

 

The banter slows down, and through the haze of what they've just smoked, a flash of  _something_ goes through Clarke's mind. She grins, lightly placing a hand on Lexa's cheek. 

 

Lexa furrows a brow. “Clarke?”

 

“Can I try something?”

 

“Erm. Try what?”

 

Clarke’s eyes move to gaze at Lexa’s lips - the weed is making her aware of every movement she makes, and this, in turn, means that this is intentional. She doesn't have too much control over her limbs at the moment, but the core of her brain wants this, it pushes her forward, she is suddenly overwhelmed with the will to do this.

 

She slowly starts to move forward, but Lexa backs away at the last second, right when Clarke’s lips have started to brush against hers.

 

“How high are you?” Lexa says, laughing nervously and sitting up.

 

Clarke's lips feel like they’re burning from where they touched Lexa's lips. _Must be the weed._  She lies there for a few seconds, rolling on to her back and focusing on the sky, trying hard to suppress the disappointment brewing in her stomach. 

 

“Sorry. I'm pretty high,” she says breezily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “Shall we go back?”

 

Lexa simply stares at Clarke, trying to process what’s just happened, but her mind is too far up in the cloud for her to form any logical lines of thought. She still feels a little silly, still giggly, and she nods. “Sure.”

 

It’s not much, really.

 

But it’s where it all begins.

 

* * *

**31 Months Ago**

 

The second time it almost happens, months later, it happens.

 

It’s at Wells’s Christmas party, and they’re both shittered from the punch and in the bathroom together. It’s around one in the morning. Clarke’s realizing how drunk she is as she relieves herself on the toilet, and Lexa has made herself comfortable in Wells’s bathtub, reading through one of the magazines from the bathroom stand.

 

The past few weeks of school had been stressful – they’d already been assigned huge papers, homework assignments, and projects. The idleness of winter break is a welcome embrace for both of the girls.

 

As for Clarke and Lexa, things have been more or less the same.

 

More or less.

 

There have been more casual brushes of hands than normal, more kisses on the cheek that are a _little_ too close to lips, more held gazes from across the room; something has changed between the two of them, and Clarke has spent the past few months desperate to act on this.

 

“Do you think we’ve all actually been reincarnated?” Lexa finishes reading a Buddhist theory and squints up at the showerhead.

 

“If we were, I bet I was, like, Van Gogh in an earlier life.” Clarke finishes up on the toilet and moves to wash her hands. “And you were Mozart.”

 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Lexa huffs, squeezing a squeaky duck sitting on the bathtub ledge. “You're already an artist, and I'm already a violinist. I don’t think people could be reincarnated into people who were already the person that they were before they died. Also, is Mozart really the only violinist you know? You're so musically uncultured, it actually kills me.”

 

“Uh, there’s Beethoven…and Bach…and, ah…” Clarke shakes her head, drying her hands off on a towel. “Get out of the tub, Lexa. Since when do you know all about reincarnation?”

 

“I read a magazine article just now, so you could say that I'm an expert in the matter. Hey, how funny would it be if you were Joseph Stalin in another life?” Lexa says, starting to giggle.

 

Clarke raises an eyebrow. "Not funny."

 

“Moustache and all.”

 

“You’ve been studying for history a tad too much.”

 

"No such thing." Lexa places the magazine on her face, leaning back.

 

None of this is actually funny from a sober perspective, but the whole show of drunk Lexa is funny in itself, and Clarke can't help but laugh at Lexa laughing.

 

"Get up, loser. Let's go back to the party."

 

Lexa takes the magazine off of her face, fumbles her way into a standing position, and starts to make her way out of the tub, but stumbles once she’s out. Clarke moves quickly to steady her friend, and the two stand there, staring at each other.

 

Clarke is still holding Lexa’s arms.

 

Lexa swallows nervously, eyes nervously flitting from Clarke’s eyes to her lips.

 

The tension is palpable. Clarke doesn’t know if she can stand it any further.

 

Lexa is the first to break the silence. “Clarke –“

 

Clarke silences her by pressing her lips against Lexa’s, moving her hands from Lexa’s arms down to her waist. It takes Lexa a second, but her hands are immediately on either side of Clarke's face, kissing her back, hard. Clarke feels a rush of heat move through her body as she pushes Lexa back against the wall. She is about to take it a step further, moving her right hand slightly underneath the hem of Lexa’s shirt, and Lexa breathes in sharply at the sensation, moving her hand on Clarke’s face further back to take hold in her hair –

 

Then someone is knocking on the door.

 

The two girls jump apart, looking at the source of the sound, then at each other.

 

“Hey! I need to pee!” Patrick's voice sounds from outside. “Hurry up!”

 

Lexa clears her throat, smoothing down her shirt, and Clarke runs a hand through her now-rumpled hair before opening the door. Patrick's hand is in a mid-knocking position, and he drunkely pushes past Clarke and Lexa.

 

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles, “What is it with girls and going to the bathroom together? Why does that happen?”

 

Clarke shrugs, leaving the bathroom, and Lexa follows. “Trolls, you know? Bathroom trolls?”

 

“Whatever. Dave’s starting a game of sociables out in the living room,” Patrick says before closing the door, hiccoughing. “And Wells is hosting a beer pong tourney.”

 

“Thanks, Patrick, but I think I’m heading home, soon,” Clarke says. Patrick shrugs, and closes the door behind him.

 

The girls stand in the dark hallway in silence. Lexa turns to Clarke. Clarke still feels like her heart is swelling up a little from their -  _exchange -_ just now. 

 

“I’m not gay.”

 

Clarke raises an eyebrow. She's drunk, but not drunk enough to not see the slight fear and confusion in her best friend's eyes. “Okay.”

 

“I’m not!”

 

“Okay!” Clarke raises both of her hands. "It doesn't have to happen again. Whatever."

 

Lexa pauses. “I mean –“

 

Clarke groans, not quite having the patience for her friend's indecisiveness at the moment. If she's being honest to herself, she's willing to take Lexa into the bedroom on their right hand side and continue where they left off, but she knows that's a mistake. That kiss was a _huge_ mistake. Lexa is very obviously panicking a little, and Clarke doesn't want to be the source of that. They can figure it out later. Or never.

 

Preferably never.

 

“Right. Let’s go play a round of beer pong and head home.” Clarke extends a hand to Lexa, and Lexa shrugs, taking it.

 

"I’m pretty drunk right now. I could probably kiss lots of other people. It's what drunk people do,” Lexa adds.

 

“Sure, Lex,” Clarke says, making her way out to the beer pong table. “Whatever you say.”

 

* * *

 

25 Months Ago

 

This goes on for weeks. Months. Every time the two girls get drunk, they end up pressed tightly against each other, hands running down each other’s backs – a tangle of inebriation. Mouths melding against each other as if they’ve been doing this for years. Holding each other until they aren’t sure whose body is whose, anymore.

 

They never get very far, though - Clarke is too afraid to take things any further than stray hands up shirts, in fear of Lexa pulling back, and Lexa -

 

Well, Lexa is just afraid. She never initiates any of their kisses, but freely goes with it whenever Clarke does initiate things. Clarke frequently asks _"Is this okay? Is this okay? Is this okay?"_. Lexa says _"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."_

 

Then they see each other at school the next day, and pretend that nothing’s happened the night before. Clarke pretends that she didn’t spend all of last night wishing she could lock herself and Lexa in a bedroom, and Lexa pretends that she’s still just a straight girl having fun with her best friend. “I was _so_ drunk last night” is a common phrase shared between the two of them.

 

But both of them wonder. Lexa begins to realize that she’s never really been attracted to a man before. Clarke begins to realize that she’s never wanted to kiss anyone as much as she constantly wants to kiss Lexa. But neither of them speak of it. They go about their days as normal. Lexa goes to Clarke's house and watches her paint. Clarke goes to Lexa’s house and watches her compose music and practice her violin. Everything is normal.

 

 _Normal_ being used in the loosest form possible.  _Normal_ being  _completely not normal but we're trying really hard to pretend. Normal_ being Clarke lying in her bed,  _wondering_ why Lexa wouldn't acknowledge what's been happening between the two of them, thinking of their drunken nights together (often letting her imagination run wild and continue what Clarke would never continue in real life). 

 

It's summer again, and the year is coming to a close. Clarke is sitting on the swings with Wells. It's finally warm enough to be able to wear shorts and a t-shirt in the evening.

 

"Okay, so let me get this straight." Wells says. "You're not."

 

Clarke's about to hop off her swing and punch Wells for that one, but she just snorts. "I guess not."

 

"So, like, you're bisexual? Does that mean you're into the threesome life, now?"

 

Clarke glares over at Wells - she loves him dearly, like a brother, but he's acting like a really dense straight boy right now. "It doesn't work like that. I just like girls in the same way I like guys. That doesn't mean I want to do both of them at once. God."

 

"Sorry, sorry. How did you - I mean, how did you figure it out? Like, did you see a photo of Cate Blanchett one day and you kind of went "woo-hoo"? Or?"

 

"Jesus, Wells!"

 

"What! I'm new to this."

 

Clarke is mostly grateful that her best friend is cool with it all, cool enough with it to crack dumb jokes like the ones he's cracking right now, but she's still a little exasperated. "I don't know. I just kind of realized that I wanted to kiss girls as much as I want to kiss boys."

 

"What girls? Lexa?"

 

She almost falls off of her swing. "What?" she splutters, her face going bright red. "No. She's my best friend - along with you, of course - and if you're implying that every girl who likes girls is into their female best friend -"

 

"Calm down, I'm not. All I'm saying is that you and her mysteriously disappear during parties and re-emerge looking a little ruffled up."

 

Alarmed, Clarke turns her head to Wells. "Have people noticed? Lexa doesn't want people to notice -"

 

"No, but I have. Like you said, we're best friends. It's a little hard to not notice when your beer pong partner never is around to play beer pong anymore."

 

Clarke runs a hand through her hair. "Sorry. I don't know what's up with her. I'm - I'm trying to figure it out. It's fine, though. We just fool around sometimes. No big deal."

 

"You got far too taken aback for it to not be a big deal."

 

"It's not a big deal."

 

"It's okay if it's a big deal. But I'd suggest dealing with the big deal before your feelings get out of hand, as they always do."

 

Wells is right, but Clarke would never admit that.

 

*

 

The first time Lexa initiates things is when they're at Clarke's home, alone, after their last high school party, ever. Clarke's mother is on a flight back from a doctor's conference, and won't be back until very, very early the next morning.

 

Clarke initiates the kiss.

 

Lexa? She initiates everything else.

 

The year end party was boisterous, fun, drunk, everything that a year-end party could possibly have been. Clarke and Lexa remained inseparable, getting their asses kicked in beer pong, speaking to their mutual friends together, Lexa with a hand possessively around Clarke's waist, Clarke sitting on Lexa's lap on the couch as they laughed with Wells about a few of the ridiculous antics that the graduating class had been up to all year.

 

Now, Clarke and Lexa usually left parties together, but always when it was dwindling down, when everyone was saying goodbye, goodnight - this time, they left early. Lexa had come up to Clarke as she poured herself another drink, pressed herself against Clarke's back, and whispered -

 

"Do you want to get out of here?"

 

Clarke had almost dropped her drink with the surprise of it all, already feeling the heat coming back and spreading all throughout her body, feeling her ears turn slightly red. "Uh, sure," she mumbled, taking a sip of her drink and placing it down on the counter. Someone will finish it off for her later. 

 

By "out of here," Clarke was thinking out of the living room and into a bedroom somewhere, but Lexa was putting her shoes on (and having a little trouble with it in her current state) at the front door. Clarke, dumbfounded, followed her lead, and Lexa grabbed Clarke's hand and led them outside.

 

Clarke lives less than a five minutes walk away from Wells's house, and when they get there (after walking in complete silence), Clarke unlocks the door, kicking her shoes off as Lexa does, and follows her up the stairs. Her heart is pounding.

 

Lexa doesn't bother turning the lights on in Clarke's room, and Clarke shuts the door behind her, flopping on her back onto her bed. Her ears are ringing, and she's not entirely sure if it's from the booze, or from the adrenaline threatening to have her heart beat out of her chest.

 

"That was a fun party." Lexa's voice sounds from the foot of Clarke's bed, and Clarke sees the shadowed figure of her friend standing uneasily before her.

 

"Yeah," Clarke says awkwardly. 

 

"Daniel asked if we were together. Isn't that funny?"

 

Clarke swallows. "Yeah. Funny."

 

"I mean, I'm not gay, but if I were, I think we'd be a pretty cute couple," Lexa continues, still standing. "You're a fantastic kisser. I'm sure you're fantastic in other things in that department."

 

Clarke  _knows,_ she just  _knows_ that this is  _trouble_ waiting to happen, that she should tell Lexa to go to bed, sober up,  _not_ allow anything further to happen - but Clarke is the last person she would ever call the patron saint of self control when it comes to Lexa Woods. 

 

"Come here," she whispers hoarsely, "Please."

 

She watches Lexa's dark figure as she slowly leans forward, crawling onto the bed and over Clarke's body - literally  _crawling,_ which is pretty much the sexiest thing Clarke has _ever_ seen, and only after a moment's hesitation, Lexa moves forward in a near-bruising kiss. Clarke already feels a moan pushing its way up her throat as they kiss, open-mouthed and wet with Lexa's tongue running along the tip of Clarke's, Lexa between Clarke's legs and pushing her hips into her, and Clarke feels like she is about to burst at the seams as the warmth in her body pools in between her legs, her hands firmly gripping the back of Lexa's neck.

 

But Clarke will not allow herself to take it any further - not until Lexa does. The thought of it makes her want to squirm because  _she wants Lexa she wants Lexa right now,_ but she has to know that Lexa wants Clarke, too. _  
_

 

Thankfully, the wait is not long. She feels Lexa's lithe fingers, still a little cold from outside, make their way up Clarke's shirt, fingertips brushing against the outline of Clarke's bra.

 

Lexa pulls away from Clarke's lips for a moment, stopping her movements. "Is this -"

 

" _Yes,_ " Clarke breathes instantly. She sees the dark figure of Lexa nod and moans, deep inside of her throat, when Lexa's fingers move underneath Clarke's bra, brushing against her nipple. Lexa moves to place her lips in Clarke's neck, sucking until it leaves a bruise, and soothing the ache with her tongue, and Clarke is beginning to see stars underneath her closed eyes.  _  
_

 

She brings her hands up and underneath Lexa's shirt, and Lexa pushes off of Clarke to straddle her, crossing her arms around her front to take the shirt off, and reaches for Clarke to do the same. Clarke cannot believe that this is happening. If this is a dream, she hopes that she does not wake up soon. She takes off her shirt, reaching up and around Lexa's back to unclasp her bra expertly, and it slides down Lexa's arm. Clothes continue to get shucked off of Clarke's bed, and soon they are left wearing nothing but their panties.

 

Neither of them have enough time to think about what they are doing as they are back to kissing each other with fervor, touching every inch of bare skin that they can get to, letting out moans and low-voiced " _fuck"s_ and their breathing growing heavy to the point where Clarke thinks she might pass out.

 

Lexa is the first to slowly start to lower her hand down to Clarke's hips, running her fingers along the fabric of her underwear. Clarke moves her hips up as an encouragement - _yes, this is okay -_ and Lexa moves off of Clarke's body to slide the fabric down Clarke's legs. Clarke rises, taking Lexa by the waist, and whirls them around so that she is on top, and Lexa's underwear comes off soon after. Clarke settles herself in between Lexa's legs this time, and she feels Lexa's wetness on her stomach. She is already close to the edge. 

 

"You're wet," she murmurs, moving to attach her lips to Lexa's breasts, running her tongue over Lexa's nipple.

 

"I -  _oh -"_

 

Clarke pushes into Lexa's centre, and Lexa's breath catches in her throat. Clarke smirks and continues to press herself against Lexa, moving up to kiss her again.

 

She's never done this before, but it feels -  _good._ They fumble a little, awkward at times, but they know each others bodies, and their own. 

 

 

Clarke starts moving her way down Lexa's body, glancing up. "This good?"

 

Lexa's voice comes out strained. "Um - mhm."

 

Clarke nods at this, and slowly starts to trail wet kisses down the length of Lexa's toned body, careful to be slow.  _  
_

 

She has slept with boys before, and they have gone down on her, but never has it been satisfying. Clarke uses this knowledge, with the knowledge of the things she does to herself, and slowly moves her tongue along the length of Lexa's slit, moaning at the taste and the wetness she finds. Lexa shudders, letting out a sharp cry, fingers gripping in Clarke's blonde hair. Clarke latches her lips on to Lexa's bundle of nerves, beginning to run her tongue along it, gripping Lexa's thighs as Lexa's breathing grows more and more erratic, her legs starting to shake. Clarke keeps going. As long as it takes for Lexa to reach. She doesn't care how long it takes.

 

And it doesn't take very long.

 

" _Oh._ Fuck. Clarke -  _fuck!"_

 

Lexa climaxes and Clarke almost does just by listening to her cry out her name, tug on her hair as she arches her back, and when Clarke lifts her head, Lexa's sweat-slicked chest is heaving, her eyes still screwed shut, and Clarke takes the moment to wipe her mouth off on the side of her arm, laying down beside Lexa, her breathing just as uneven. She feels her heart swell again, this time with happiness instead of anxiety, and she thinks that this could be the beginning of something great between the two of them. Something Clarke has been waiting for all year.

 

Without warning, Lexa is on top of Clarke in an instant.

 

"My turn," she breathes.

 

Maybe this is something better than what Clarke expected. 

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes up and stretches, feeling a pleasant kind of soreness in her muscles. She looks over at the clock to see that it’s near ten, and looks over to see that Lexa is not there beside her.

 

She feels slightly panicked, but the panic subsides when she hears someone moving about in the kitchen. Letting out a yawn, she gets out of bed and puts on a pair of pyjama shorts and a t-shirt that’s just a little too big for her (Lexa’s shirt that she left here  _ages_ ago), and proceeds to head down the stairs. 

 

There’s a faint smile on her lips as she moves. Last night was–well, last night was clumsy, and a little drunk–but last night was otherwise perfect. Clarke remembers Lexa burying her face in Clarke’s shoulder before they fell asleep together, still a little sweaty, and still a little breathless. 

 

Clarke is formulating the right words to say to Lexa- she knows that Lexa probably is feeling anxious about things - and she wonders if she’s allowed to kiss her good morning today.

 

She turns the corner.

 

“Hi–”

 

 

It’s not Lexa in the kitchen, but Abigail.

 

“Hi, Clarke!” she says, moving forward to hug her daughter hello. “I’ve made waffles, French toast, and some bacon. There’s hot water for tea, if you’d like.”

 

“Morning, mom, thanks,” Clarke says, looking around the kitchen to see if maybe Lexa is sitting at the table - but she isn’t. The panicked feeling she had felt before comes bubbling back up. “How was your conference? And - have you seen Lexa?”

 

“The conference was good. Productive. Lexa? I actually saw her right as I got home, around five. She was just leaving. Does she have a new job, or something?" Abigail pours some of the hot water into her own mug. "She sounded like she was in a hurry, running down the stairs and all. Maybe she was late.”

 

“Uh, no,” Clarke says in a faint voice, feeling the panic start to wilt and her heart beginning to sink into her stomach and tears starting to well up in her eyes as she realizes what’s happening. Clarke sits at the empty table. “I guess she’s gone. Um, thanks for breakfast, but, uhm, I’m not all that hungry. I’m sorry.”

 

“What? French toast is your favorite!” Abigail exclaims, turning to see that Clarke is almost in tears.

 

She quickly turns the stove off and puts her spatula down, racing over to kneel next to Clarke. “Clarke? What’s wrong? What is it? Did you and Lexa have a fight?”

 

Clarke's tears flood over her eyes at that moment and buries her head in her hands, shaking her head. “No. It’s–it’s nothing,” she mumbles, sniffling and looking up, giving her mother a watery smile. “Look, I just–I need to go upstairs. I’m sorry.”

 

Abigail raises an eyebrow, but knows better than to bother Clarke any more about it. "Okay. Let me know if you need anything."

 

Clarke says a quick thank you and quickly goes upstairs, throwing herself on her bed face-down and allowing the tears to completely take over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two feet standing on a principle  
> two hands longing for each others' warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of the kudos + comments so far! They've been super great for motivation.
> 
> This chapter takes place exactly two years after the two girls' night together, and takes a look at how the two have respectively been dealing with it all. It will also touch a little upon what life is like for Lexa back home, since in the first chapter, we really only got into Clarke and Lexa's relationship alone. The whole chapter takes place within the day. Costia will be playing a small role in this fic, and Raven will be playing a big one - I'm not sure how much I'll include other characters from The 100 yet, but we'll see. 
> 
> Please leave comments if you've got something to say, and kudos if you liked it! Thanks so much for reading :)
> 
> T

Today is June 12, 2014.

 

Lexa stares at the date on the calendar hung in the room of her apartment. A photograph of pugs, all gathered up in a basket, is the calendar’s photo of the month.

 

She decides that she now hates pugs.

 

Lexa gathers up the rest of her Poli-Sci notes, standing from her desk, stretching the soreness of sitting down for hours at a time, out of her muscles. Her exam is tomorrow, and she’s likely more prepared than any other student in her lecture, but she will pick up studying again later nonetheless. She thinks of what she was doing at this exact moment in time. It is two o’clock in the afternoon. This exact time, two years ago, Lexa had not left her bed since she had gotten home after –

 

After _that morning._ The morning where she woke up next to her. The morning where she woke up next to her, naked, morning light starting to creep its way into Her room. This exact time, two years ago, Lexa had not stopped crying for hours at a time.

 

The pain is a little less this year. She remains as alone as ever, but Lexa has learned how to not allow the crushing feeling of loneliness overwhelm her. She has learned how to carefully compartmentalize the emotions associated with Her into a little box, at the back of her head. She is careful to never open the box, in fear that it will burst and flood the rest of her body, just as it did last year.

 

Lexa packs her bag, ready to head to the supplemental Political Science seminar. It’s not necessary for her to go, but her professor had suggested that his students attend, and it wasn’t as if Lexa had much else to do, anyway. It’s not as if she can stand being alone with her thoughts right now. Not today.

 

There’s supposed to be a year-end party that the Poli-Sci cohort is throwing tonight, but Lexa has opted to decline the invite. It always goes the same way, anyway – Lexa nurses a singular drink (if not water) throughout the whole night, sitting at a table by herself, making awkward small-talk with anyone who bothers to sit with her until the person feels too uncomfortable to continue. Then, around 10, she leaves.

 

Lexa walks through campus, where boys with fraternity t-shirts are wearing backwards caps and throwing a Frisbee across the quad and freshman with tired eyes are dragging their feet to their next final.

 

 _Fuck today._ Lexa had managed an entire two days without thinking of her, and today just _had_ to be the day. She inhales deeply, feeling the anxiety of it all starting to attempt at crushing her.

 

Lexa remembers the day after. Seeing her at school the next day. Doing everything she possibly could to avoid eye contact with her.

 

She remembers every day after. Lexa remembers graduation, convocation, how Clarke was the valedictorian of their class (how fitting, Lexa had thought). How she gave a beautiful speech about maintaining friendships. A speech about allowing forgiveness for yourself. A speech about not allowing the world to harden you.

 

Lexa did not maintain friendships.

 

(Sorry.)

 

Lexa did not allow forgiveness for herself.

 

(Sorry.)

 

Lexa allowed the world to harden her.

 

(Sorry.)

 

It’s been two years since that night and the morning after. Lexa refuses to get Facebook because Clarke's art has reached new heights of fame, plastered all over posters, social media, all of it. Lexa cannot risk seeing any of it, or photos of her through mutual friends, if she can help it.

 

She quit playing her violin shortly after school ended, opting to accept the scholarships completely unrelated to music – she could have gone to the University of Manhattan for music (one of the best of its kind in the country), but her parents had always wrinkled their noses in distaste at the thought of Lexa pursuing classical music, violin, as a career. So, she instead chose to major in the Political Sciences, at the University of Berkeley. And she has hated every minute of it since.

 

_You won’t make any money playing that fiddle of yours. It’s not a smart decision._

 

The only reason Lexa had not quit before was because Clarke had convinced her to “screw what your parents say. If you want to play violin for the rest of your life, do it. You’re amazing with it, and more people need to know about your talent.”

 

Clarke had made Lexa feel like her dreams of playing in the Philharmonic were viable dreams, dreams that she could easily achieve.

 

Lexa’s violin collects dust underneath her bed, now.

 

*

 

The only sort-of-vaguely-friend friend that Lexa has made so far is Costia Abramov, a quirky girl, sweet, and oddly kind to her, considering that Lexa has maybe said around 20 words in total for the year and a half they have known each other. Part of her suspects that there may be a flirtatious kind of lilt to the way Costia speaks to her sometimes, undertones in the way Costia _always_ insists on buying her dinner when they go out to study – but Lexa actively ignores that part. She’s not sure what it is about her that could cause Costia to even consider that Lexa is attracted to women, but Lexa does not like it. Not one bit.

 

Currently, the two of them are studying for their Poli-Sci final in one of the grassy areas in the outer quad, after the supplemental seminar. Lexa reads her textbook, pretending to listen to everything Costia is saying (which is usually the way things go with them), as Costia talks and talks away.

 

“…and then Vanessa Lee dropped out of the orchestra. After pushing the conductor around to give her a solo for _months,_ she dropped out, right before a huge, huge charity concert in _Carnegie Hall._ Isn’t that ridiculous?” Costia places a hand on Lexa’s knee briefly, to get her attention, and Lexa looks up from her textbook, staring at the hand. “Isn’t that ridiculous?” Costia repeats.

 

Lexa nods. “Mmm.” She goes back to reading her textbook. Costia awkwardly takes her hand off of Lexa’s knee.

 

Costia is an oboe player for Berkeley’s orchestra – it is fairly well known, surprisingly enough – not quite at Julliard or Manhattan level, but still renowned. They’ve played concerts all around the world, and as much as Lexa aches to join them, she cannot bring herself to pick up her violin again. She knows of the Carnegie Hall concert, of course she does – another one of her dreams was to play there. And She had told Lexa that it was so, so possible.

 

Lexa is wondering how much longer she can get away with avoiding conversation before Costia gets angry with her.  It’s not that Lexa doesn’t like Costia – Lexa likes Costia just fine, as a person, of course. It’s that Lexa does not want to come off equally as flirtatious as Costia is. Lexa does _not_ like women. Absolutely not.

 

(Lexa tries to ignore this, but she knows that Costia is quite pretty – she has raven-colored hair and bright hazel eyes and beautiful, smooth olive-coloured skin. She is incredibly intelligent, artistic, kind, considerate…

 

Too much like Clarke. Lexa never allows herself to even contemplate liking Costia back.)

 

Costia continues speaking, aimlessly flipping through the pages in her textbook, clearly not reading any of it.

 

“We’re pretty desperate for someone to replace her. None of the other violinists can learn the solo in time for the Carnegie Hall concert. Vanessa Lee was the only one who learned to play it. Did you mention you play the violin the other day?”

 

Lexa swallows, turning the page of her textbook and highlighting an important sentence. She doesn’t recall telling Costia about playing the violin – in fact, Costia is the one of the only people she has said more than a handful of words to, and violin-talk was not included in those words. “No, I didn’t.”

 

There’s a pause, and Lexa can tell that Costia is itching to say something. She looks up, and Costia is looking down at her hands, biting her lip nervously.

 

(Lexa tries to not think of Her biting her lip.)

 

Finally, Costia inhales and speaks again. “Okay, I’m going to admit something to you as long as you _promise_ to not judge me.”

 

Lexa raises an eyebrow, hoping that this isn’t some confession of a crush. If it were, Lexa would up and leave. Right now.

 

“I may or may not have looked up your name on Google. It’s just that – when we were studying for our midterm in your room, I went into your desk drawer to find that thesaurus you were looking for, and I saw a gold medal for the Julliard-hosted violin competition thing. And I was like, that’s crazy! I remember Marcus telling me about how there’s only been one person younger than 18 to win that competition, like, ever, and so I was just checking to see if it was you or not. And it turned out to be you. You won when you were 17. I mean. Wow.” Costia breathes out _._ “I saw a few YouTube videos of news channels covering your orchestral concerts and stuff. You’re like, really, really good.”

 

Lexa is absolutely _amazed_ at how much one person could possibly talk so much in the span of thirty seconds. “I don't really play violin anymore.”

 

“Okay, but – it’s just – I told Marcus, our conductor, that I know you, and he _flipped._ Like, he’s pretty much a huge fan of you, and he said that you’d won some sight-reading competition, also. He was just wondering if maybe you could cover for Vanessa Lee's solo. Like, sight-read it, see how it is, and maybe cover for her solo. Just for this one concert. They just can’t seem to find _anyone,_ and they’d pay for you to get there –“

 

“I’m sorry, Costia, but I cannot. I am busy that night.”

 

“Do you even know what night it is?”

 

Lexa reddens at this. She hadn’t read the date. She remains silent.

 

Costia huffs and closes her book, quite aggressively. Lexa flinches.

 

“Okay. Lexa.” Costia runs a hand through her hair. “I’m really sorry if I did something to offend you or something, but I really don’t appreciate being completely disregarded ninety percent of the time. Look.” She sighs. “I like you, okay? Like, a lot.”

 

Lexa freezes at this.

 

“But it’s fine if you aren’t – you know – _into girls,_ or whatever. I like you like that, but I also think you’re really cool, and I’d like to at least be friends with you. You’re super smart, and you always help me with class stuff. And I really appreciate that. But if you want me to fuck off, I’d really like for you to just _tell me_ instead of making me wonder if you actually like me as a person or if you want to punch me in the face. It’s getting really difficult to tell.”

 

Costia sits there and waits for Lexa to say something. Lexa’s face is still a little red, and words are starting to choke her a little. A lump forms in her throat.

 

Lexa doesn’t know when she got like this – because with her, in high school, words always came easily to Lexa. She was always willing to go to a party or two every weekend. Now – now she was alone. Friendless. 

 

 

Costia’s breaks her thoughts. “Fine. I’ll see you in class tomorrow. Good luck studying for the final, I guess.”

 

As Costia gets up to leave, Lexa grabs her wrist, panic overtaking her. “Wait.” She _can’t_ lose the only sort-of friend she has made here. If anything, Costia could be a new beginning for Lexa. A new friend to help her navigate a new life without Her. Costia looks at the hand on her wrist, and slowly sits back down. Lexa puts her hand back down.

 

“I’m sorry I don’t talk much,” Lexa starts, starting to pick at the grass and not making eye contact. “I sort of – I sort of lost someone a little while ago. And she was very, very important to me. My life is very different without her now, and I never really learned how to get used to it. So I forgot how to socialize and stuff, and – I’m sorry. Tell Marcus I’d love to read the music for Vanessa’s solo and see if I can help out.”

 

Costia’s voice is softer. She nods, smiling gently at Lexa. “I’m sorry, too,” she says, “I didn’t mean to lash out like that. And sorry you lost someone – how did she die?”

 

“I – she didn’t –“ Lexa doesn’t know how to explain _any_ of it to Costia. She chooses to not explain. “It’s a long story. Maybe I can talk about it some other time. But not today. You’re my friend, Costia, and I’d like to get to know you better. I’m going to try harder to be better about things.”

 

Costia places a hand on Lexa’s forearm. “It’s honestly fine, Lex.”

 

Lexa just smiles at Costia. Hopefully that will do, for now.

 

Costia leans back and opens her textbook again. “So, uh.” She shifts awkwardly. “No date, huh?”

 

Lexa chuckles slightly. “I’m sorry, but I’m –“ she shakes her head. “I’m not into women like that.”

 

“That’s fine. Sorry if that makes things totally weird. I’ll stop weirdly flirting with you and stuff. Jeez. I’m so stupid."

 

"It's okay."

 

 _I’m not into women like that._ As if Lexa doesn’t replay the events of That Night in her head over and over again. As if she does not still ache for Her to be in her bed again, by her side, touching Lexa like She did –

 

_Fucking stop it._

 

Lexa watches Costia as the other girl starts to highlight lines in her textbook.

 

_Maybe I can be normal, after all._

 

_Maybe I can forget._

 

* * *

 

It’s late into the evening when Clarke Griffin wakes in the middle of the night. She’s just had a dream about a flying car chasing her through the forest, and it was oddly unsettling.

 

Her loft is vast, a little lonely – she is the only resident, and the area she lives in is relatively quiet. Clarke rolls over and pulls her cellphone off of her nightstand to check the time.

 

1:34am. June 12, 2014.

 

Clarke has put her phone back to sleep and is about to put it back on her nightstand when she realizes it.

 

June 12, 2014.

 

She presses the power button again.

 

1:34am. June 12, 2014.

 

“Fuck,” she whispers, placing her phone beside her and rolling on her back, staring up at the high ceiling.

 

How ironic it is that on the second anniversary of Lexa leaving, Clarke is alone in bed again. She wonders if Lexa is alone in bed. She wonders if Lexa has someone else in her bed.

 

The thought of the latter makes her feel sick. Clarke has never understood the term “green with envy”. She’s never felt green when it comes to thinking of someone else with Lexa. She’s always felt it, visceral, as red. Bright, angry red. All other times she thinks of Lexa, it is grey. The kind of grey that makes you sad to look at. The kind of grey where if you woke up one morning and the clouds were that dark, dismal shade of grey, you would go back to sleep in the hopes that it will clear.

 

(It doesn’t.)

 

Red is still on her mind when she gets out of bed, _knowing_ that sleep will not come to her tonight unless she does something about it, and she turns the lights on in her loft, moving to the corner where all of her painting gear is.

 

She picks up a pallet and fills it with as many acrylic shades of red that she can find.

 

An hour later, she is left with a canvas of reds, some angry, some softer, others blended into both. She stopped painting Lexa months ago – now, she paints objects associated with her during episodes like these ones. Baby steps, as Clarke likes to call it.

 

Tonight, it is a violin – again. Swirls of red surround it, and Clarke can almost hear the tune that could be played along to a presentation of this – a brusque, fast-paced tune. One that makes you feel as if you need to be somewhere, fast, or you could lose something important – perhaps the feeling of late for work after your boss threatened to fire you if you were late again, perhaps the feeling of being a paramedic racing to get to an accident before any fatalities occur. Perhaps the feeling of going downstairs to the kitchen the morning after fucking your best friend and hoping she will still be there.

 

Clarke throws the pallet and paintbrush down on the plastic sheet-covered floor and moves back to her bed, sits, and picks up her phone.

 

She goes to text a contact – Raven. Raven is always awake at this time. Clarke is fairly certain that Raven is nocturnal, at this point – always working on the next engineering project that she can get her hands on until the sun rises.

 

Raven doesn’t know much about what happened with Clarke and Lexa – just that they had once been best friends. That they had been lovers for one night. That Lexa had run away. Clarke knows Wells is sleeping right now, and she doesn’t want to incur long-distance fees for him, as he is currently in Canada for college.

 

Currently, Clarke is amongst one of the top students in her two-year long fine arts program Yale University, and well established as an artist in Connecticut. She misses the quaintness of Oregon, her high school friends, especially Wells (and Lexa, but there is not much that Clarke can do about that), but Clarke has managed to find a home in Connecticut. She graduates with her degree in fine arts next month. Her graduation exhibit will take place in New York, two weeks from today.

 

 **Clarke:  
** awake?

 

Clarke can instantaneously see the “read” receipt, and the tiny grey bubble indicating that Raven is typing. She leans back into her bed, feeling a little less lonely.

 

 **Raven:  
** Yeah. What’s up?

 

 **Clarke:  
** today is june 12

 

 **Raven:  
** Okay?

Oh

Shit.

 

 **Clarke:  
** i don’t really know what to do right now i don’t feel good

 

 **Raven:  
** I can come over?

 

 **Clarke:  
** it’s okay. it’s too late for that

 

 **Raven:  
** She still hasn’t contacted you then?

 

 **Clarke:  
** no and i don’t expect her to. i stopped expecting her to like last year

i don’t know why i can’t stop thinking about it still. like it’s stupid at this point. i feel like it’s just stupid

 

 **Raven:  
** That usually happens when you don’t get closure with someone. You never got closure, right?

 

 **Clarke:  
** no i didn’t

she literally just left me there

and didn’t speak to me for the remainder of the school year

she didn’t even look at me once

a few months after we graduated i messaged her on facebook with a link to this NBC spot briefly covering this art show that i did even though she had unfriended me

the next day i checked back to see that she had deleted her facebook and that was the last time i ever spoke to her again even though i guess that doesn’t really count

 

 **Raven:  
** I don’t understand why she left in the first place.

 

 **Clarke:  
** that’s a question i’ve been asking myself for two years

i know she was afraid but i don’t know of what exactly. i get that it was a new experience getting with a girl and all that, and i know her parents were super conservative and Christian so that probably added to that fear but i don’t know why she had to cut me off like that without explaining.

she was there for everything

she was there when my dad died and when i got my first feature in an art show and when i ran away from home for a bit when my mom threw a fit about my dad being gone. all of it

you don’t just leave someone like that. like fuck

i’m really sorry i know it’s late

 

 **Raven:  
** Clarke. It’s okay. You can talk to me any time and you’re having a hard time right now. I’m here for you, okay?

 

 **Clarke:  
** thanks

that really doesn’t sound very sincere but i don’t know how else to convey that over text but thank you

 

 **Raven:  
** No no no I get it. And Clarke, listen – from the looks of it Lexa is not coming back to you.

 

Clarke flinches at this.

 

 **Raven:  
** I think you need to get that closure for yourself without her, somehow. You’re one of the most talented artists I know and already so well-known in just Connecticut alone. Your art has been sold internationally and it’s literally been fuckin’ tattooed on people’s bodies. You're famous. Don’t let yourself get dragged down by someone who doesn’t give enough of a crap about you to even say sorry or to give you an explanation.

 

**Clarke:**

i'm like indie famous not real famous

 

 **Raven:  
** Your modesty is just about one of the stupidest things I've ever seen.

 

 **Clarke:  
** thanks though raven i do feel better about things

 

 **Raven:  
** good. now go to bed, you dummy. It's almost 3 in the morning.

 

* * *

 

After a brief chat with Marcus, Lexa found out that the solo they needed someone to play was _Chaconne_ by Antonio Vitali – a piece Lexa had learned how to play years ago. Since there wasn’t much time for Lexa to learn the other parts, it was agreed that she would only help them with that solo – Berkeley would pay for her flight, and she would room with Costia.

 

Lexa’s parents did not take the news of Lexa joining Berkeley’s orchestra all too well, regardless of how brief it would be. They’re afraid that she’ll “fall back into it”, “it” being classical music, violin, something they know _very well_ that Lexa _loves_ doing. The conversation goes something like this:

 

“I just don’t want you to fall into that hole again, Alexandria,” Elizabeth Woods says through her phone’s speaker. Lexa hears her father murmur in agreement. “You’re flourishing in the Political Sciences –“

 

Lexa is not.

 

“-and I don’t want your fiddle-playing to get in the way of that.”

 

“I won’t, mom,” Lexa says, “It’s just that I’ve made a new friend and I’d like to do a favour for her, since she’s been nothing but nice to me all year. I’ll substitute for their soloist only once. I have no interest in continuing.”

 

(That’s a lie, but Lexa will uphold it nonetheless.)

 

Her parents ignore the part about Lexa’s social life – Lexa is sure that Elizabeth and Howard Woods don’t even want her to _have_ one. Her father speaks next.

 

“When will you be home for the summer? Father Paul has been asking about you.”

 

Lexa likes speaking over the phone with her parents, because they cannot see her roll her eyes. Father Paul is the head pastor at their Catholic church, and their parents are very close with him – but Lexa has never liked the man. She can tell that he judges every word she says, eyes her every time he leads Sunday’s sermon, making sure she is actually praying.

 

(Most of the time, she is not.)

 

“Hopefully a few days after finals are over, depending on how fast I can sublet my apartment for the summer. And after I’m finished with the concert. ”

 

“I hope that apartment has been serving you well,” Elizabeth says, “And I hope you’ve been taking good care of it – you do remember that it is your grandmother’s money, God bless her soul –“

 

“Yes, mother. I’ve been taking good care of it.” Being the only child of an only child, Lexa received a very large sum of her late grandmother’s inheritance – and her grandmother had been very, very wealthy.

 

Lexa’s heart aches at the thought of her grandmother – the only one in her family who seemed to give a damn about Lexa’s interests. She had been the one to buy Lexa her first violin.

 

“Okay, Lexa,” Howard says. “Is your news about the orchestra all you had?”

 

Lexa clears her throat, ignoring the passive-aggressive tone of his voice. “Yes. I – I thought I’d let you know, in case you might want to watch – Carnegie Hall is a beautiful venue –“

 

“Sorry, Alexandria, but we simply cannot afford the time to fly out just for a little concert.”

 

 _A little concert. Carnegie Hall._ Lexa has had dreams of playing there since she was five years old – Howard and Elizabeth know it.

 

“Why are you being like this?” she finally blurts out.

 

There’s a moment of silence, and suddenly her mother’s voice sounds, quiet, but clearly angry. “Excuse me?”

 

“This is Carnegie Hall. Did you not hear me when I said that? I’m going to be sight-reading Chaconne. Vitali. In front of an audience full of classical music buffs, famous musicians, possibly even directors of universities –“

 

“That you will not be attending in lieu of finishing your Political Sciences degree. Alexandria, do not be _petulant –_ “

 

“I don’t understand. I was one of the best violinists our _city,_ and you completely disregarded that. Completely. I could have gone to the University of Manhattan for a degree in music, and –“

 

“And then what? You teach it? Become one of those low-life professors with nothing better to do than conduct a group of rag-tag fiddle-players? Who is this new friend who asked you to do this? I don’t like the sounds of her, already. If she’s anything like that Clarke girl, Alexandria, I suggest –“

 

Lexa hangs up on them. She’s sure she will get her comeuppance for that soon, but she refuses to have to deal with it now.

 

Her phone rings again, her parents calling her back, but she declines the call, turns her phone off, and reads the sheet music that Marcus gave her for Vitali.

 

For the first time in two years, Lexa reaches underneath her bed for her violin.

 

She dusts it off.

 

She tunes it.

 

And she plays.

 

* * *

 

“Earth to Clarke. Hello? Earth to Clarke?”

 

Clarke blinks, realizing she has been stirring her coffee for a solid two minutes now, staring. Raven sits across from her at the café, eyebrow raised.

 

“How much sleep did you get last night? When you texted me?”

 

Clarke shrugs. “I went back to bed after you told me to, but then I woke up again around seven and went for a run. So, probably around 3 hours.”

 

Raven groans. “Jesus, Clarke. I thought you were giving up irregular sleep schedules for lent or something.”

 

“I lied."

 

"I swear to god -"

 

"You’re one to talk,” she continues, “You sleep at 4am, like, every day.”

 

“Yeah, but then I wake up at 12pm the next. Still get my eight hours.”

 

Clarke’s eyes start to wander around the café – it’s finals season, and the quiet bustle of stressed college students is oddly calming. “How are finals going for you, by the way?”

 

Raven scoffs. “Almost too well. The only thing stressing me out about finals are the people stressing out about finals.”

 

 

“Not everyone is a brainy superhero like you, Reyes.” Clarke leans back against her chair. Raven seems to ignore this.

 

 

"I'm coming with you to your New York art exhibit, right?"

 

"If you want," Clarke says, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

 

 

"One of my friends who lives there says there's this big charity concert happening at Carnegie Hall. The gallery for your show is only like, a few blocks away. We should go."

 

Clarke hums. "It  _has_ been a while since I've listened to classical music."

 

 

"It's featuring some big solo by this girl named Vanessa Lee at the end. I think it'll be nice to go to a classical concert before your show - maybe it'll help you wind down a little before the big night."

 

Clarke nods. A sudden wave of quiet sadness washes through her again as she is reminded of going to Lexa’s orchestra shows, watching Lexa perform solos that were not unlike what Clarke is sure Vanessa Lee’s solo will be like.

 

“You zoned out again just now. What is it?” Raven says, a curious look on her face as she tilts her head to the right.

 

Clarke sighs, shaking her head. “It’s stupid.”

 

“I will _literally_ kill you if you respond with that to me asking you a question again.”

 

“Jeez, sorry. I’m just – thinking of Lexa again. She used to play the violin. Like, really, really well.”

 

“Guessing that’s why you listen to an odd amount of classical music?”

 

Clarke nods. “She got me into it.”

 

Raven moves forward, mischievously raising an eyebrow. “Maybe you’ll fall for Vanessa Lee. I’ve seen photos of her. She’s hot. And she plays the violin. And you need to start dating again.”

 

“What?” Clarke furrows a brow. “I _am_ dating.”

 

“If your definition of “dating” is “go on two dates, maybe hook up once, dump person after realizing they are not Lexa Woods”, then I think you and I need to have a _really_ serious talk.”

 

“God, Raven. You should meet my friend, Wells. You two would get along swimmingly, bullying me like this.” Clarke pauses. “Think there’s any chance that Lexa might be one of the members of the orchestra?”

 

After a moment of consideration, Raven shakes her head. “Doubt it. I’ve actually gone to one of their concerts before, a few months back, when my friend who is organizing the Carnegie event needed help setting up some lights. I don’t recall seeing her. Besides, if she’s as good as you say she is, wouldn’t it be likely that she would be the soloist instead of Vanessa Lee?”

 

“You’re right. Wishful thinking.” Clarke runs a fingertip along the rim of her mug, resting her chin on her other hand. "I don't know what I would even do if I  _did_ see her. I keep playing the scenario back in my head, wondering what I'd say."

 

"Yell at her? Throw something at her?"

 

Clarke laughs. "No. I - I think I'd be happy to see her. Even if she wasn't happy to see me. I mean, the really cruel, gross side of me hopes she isn't over me yet, that she's still hurting as much as I am, but...mostly I'd just like for her to be my friend again."

 

"This girl really did a number on you, Clarke," Raven says gently. "Are you sure that's what you would want?"

 

Clarke knows that Raven doesn't quite understand the layers and intricacy involved with her and Lexa's relationship - the unbelievably strong emotional bond they had formed just over the span of a few years, how they were completely in-tune with each others' emotions at all times. 

 

"No. But I don't even know why I'm talking about this, really. I haven't seen her or heard the slightest whisper even related to her in two years. That's not going to change any time soon."

 

* * *

 

For the first time in years, Lexa Woods is enjoying herself at a party.

 

Costia had invited her to a year-end party hosted by some fraternity, and while it had taken a significant amount of pleading and coaxing for Lexa to finally agree to go, Lexa hadn't enjoyed herself this much in  _ages._

 

Lexa finds herself liking Costia more and more - she's fun, energetic, consistently kind and considerate to Lexa; they're currently in the kitchen of the frat house as Costia makes a strange concoction of Bacardi white rum and orange juice and other alcoholic beverages that Lexa has never even heard of. 

 

"Jungle juice," Costia says, taking a sip and wrinkling her nose. She holds the cup up to Lexa. "Try this. It's disgusting."

 

"You haven't exactly sold it very well."

 

Costia moves the cup back, drinking from it yet again. "You're right." Costia takes Lexa's hand and starts pulling her towards the exit of the kitchen. "C'mon, let's go explore." While Lexa is a little startled by the contact, she welcomes it as she follows. 

 

They head back out into the hall and three girls cram into the bathroom, then throw the door closed behind them before any other girls try to squeeze in. It’s like a flood and the door’s the dam and it can never close quick enough. They manage to squeeze their way through the swarm of people in the foyer and make it to the living room where it’s a lot less crowded. Costia leans on the counter and Lexa stands next to her. Lexa is sure she needs another drink, but she's not too worried about finding one if she has to. Generally, all the boys are pretty okay with letting you have a sip, and if you talk to enough of them for two or three minutes each, you can end up with a couple shots in you. Lexa remembers this from the parties in high school.

 

Two guys walk over to Costia and Lexa.

 

“Hey, you guys wanna play beer pong?” one of them says. He has dark eyes that look a little drowsy—probably because he’s drunk—and short brown hair. He’s wearing a navy polo, chinos, boat shoes. Frat Boy Uniform.

 

“No,” Costia says, grinning slyly. She grabs Lexa's elbow and whispers “Oh God,” into her ear, and Lexa laughs. The boys smirk and look at each other. Lexa imagines that they think Costia murmured something to her about how cute they are.

 

"I'm Brent," one of them says, reaching out for Lexa's hand.

 

That's when Lexa sees it.

 

It's a tattoo of a crown, similar to a Jean-Michel Basquait drawing, but with a cartoonish sketch of a child wearing it. Lexa knows that drawing. It had gotten very popular through art forums on Reddit, Deviantart, all throughout social media. Stickers were made from the illustration and plastered onto street signs. Even some pencil cases had the design etched into their canvas.

 

Lexa knows this because she knows who the artist is. Lexa knows this because she watched as the artist first started to sketch it.

 

Brent catches Lexa staring at the tattoo, and he grins. "Like it? I found it through Reddit a few months back, and I loved it."

 

"Reddit. Classic," Costia murmurs to Lexa, but Lexa is still transfixed on the tattoo. What the  _fuck_ are the odds?

 

(The odds are pretty great, actually, since tattoo artists everywhere picked up the design once it garnered the popularity it did.)

 

Brent continues talking. "The artist is pretty hot, too, if I'm being honest. She had an odd name, though." Brent turns to Clay. "What was her name again? We went to one of her art convention things with your ex-girlfriend, remember?"

 

"The blonde one? Clarke Griffin?"

 

"Yeah, Clarke Griffin. Hot and talented. Dream girl." Brent turns back to the girls. "Have you heard of her?"

 

Lexa feels like an icicle is being driven into her stomach. She feels the cold and the pain together, every little bit of the feeling, and she feels faint. 

 

Costia shakes her head. "No." She seems to notice that Lexa has paled, and takes her hand again. "We're gonna go now. Bye."

 

 

Once they pull away from the crowd, Costia places both hands on Lexa's shoulders. Suddenly, touch is not so welcome anymore, and she shrugs out of the grip.

 

"Sorry," Costia says. "What happened back there? You okay?"

 

Lexa looks at Costia, inhaling deeply through her nose, and smiles. "Yeah, sorry. I think I - I think I just drank too much."

 

"Okay, sure," Costia says uneasily - then she is back to smiling. "Did you hear what they were saying about that Clarke Griffin artist girl? I should try to find her and hit her up. Artsy girls are  _totally_ my type."

 

The icicle drives into Lexa's stomach even further.

 

"On second thought, I'm going to go home." Lexa turns and pushes through the crowd without bothering to see if Costia is following. 

 

By the time she gets back to her apartment, Lexa's hands are shaking. She moves to her closet, where an unpacked box sits - a box full of yearbooks and memorabilia that her parents had  _insisted_ she pack, as it cluttered up their house too much. She digs through the box to the bottom, where she knows what will be there. The thing she has been avoiding for two years.

 

A few moments later, she finds it. A Polaroid candid of her and Clarke in their eleventh year. Clarke has flour on her nose, and Lexa's got icing all over her shirt. Lexa remembers this moment clearly - baking cookies with Wells Jaha turned into a massive food-and-flour fight. Clarke's got her arms around Lexa and is kissing her cheek, and Lexa is laughing heartily. Clarke had gifted this Polaroid to Lexa on Lexa's birthday. 

 

On the bottom of the white border, it reads, in Clarke's loopy handwriting:

 

_January 16, 2011.  
I think we'll be best friends for life. Don't you?_

 

Lexa tears the Polaroid in two.

 

Lexa throws the pieces in the garbage can.

 

Lexa cries alone in her bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i can't erase it from my mind  
> i just replay it, love  
> think of it all of the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very thankful for every single kudos and comment you guys have given me! I've actually never been more motivated to write a fic before.
> 
> Updates will be fast for the next little while, as I'm still out of school, but I'm heading back soon which means there'll be a bit more time in between updates after a while - but don't worry, I have every intention of seeing this fic through to the end.
> 
> I do recommend that you guys listen to the piece that Lexa solos with (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_V0KE_8c4U). Firstly because it's an absolutely gorgeous piece, and secondly, to give you all a great visual of ADC playing this song on a violin. Because, I mean. 
> 
> At the very least, listen to the first and last minute of the piece. Maybe then, you'll see what Clarke sees when she hears the song.

**Six Years Ago**

 

They meet in English class, in their ninth year. Alexandria Woods is the nervous new girl – Clarke Griffin is the one to welcome her with open arms.

 

Clarke understands the feeling of being left out all too well – as a child, the other fourth-graders around her thought it was strange that Clarke would rather stay inside for lunch hour, painting with the watercolors that Ms. Ryan would provide her with, instead of playing freeze tag. Clarke was never really invited to many birthday parties.

 

It’s Clarke who extends the offer for Lexa to be her partner when their English teacher assigns a group project.

 

She leans over to Wells.

 

“I’m going to ask the new girl to be my partner.”

 

“What? You can’t ditch me. I thought it was always me doing the writing, you doing the creative, artsy stuff,” Wells whispers, “This is totally messing up the balance.”

 

“C’mon, Wells, don’t be a drama queen,” she murmurs back, “Everyone else in this class already knows each other. You know that thing people do? When the teacher tells the class it’ll be a pairs project, and everyone looks at the person they want to be in the pair with? No one did it to Alexandria. How much would it suck to be the only one no one chooses?”

 

Wells sinks back in his seat, begrudgingly agreeing to the suggestion.

 

When it’s time to get up and go to your chosen partner, Clarke sees Alexandria look up and around in a panic as everyone moves to their best friends’ desk. Wells goes to Parker Moore, an old friend from their elementary school. Clarke walks towards Alexandria’s desk.

 

“Did you have a partner in mind?”

 

Alexandria, startled, glances up at Clarke, then around the classroom again. Clarke suddenly starts feeling nervous, which is strange, because Clarke usually doesn’t feel nervous in scenarios involving meeting new people.

 

Alexandria turns back to Clarke. “Erm. Not really, seeing as I don’t know the names of anyone in this class. Did you – did you have one in mind?”

 

“I was thinking you, actually,” Clarke says, pulling up the empty chair at the desk beside Alexandria’s, and seating herself beside her. “If you wanted, that is.”

 

Alexandria seems to sigh a little in relief. “Oh, okay. Thank god. I didn’t want to presume you wanted to be my partner or anything, but I’d love to be your partner. For sure. Thanks so much.”

 

Clarke grins, and extends a hand. “I’m Clarke. You’re Alexandria, yeah?”

 

“Yes, but you can call me Lexa. It’s less of a mouthful. I’m not entirely sure what my parents were thinking when they named me with a five-syllable name.”

 

“Okay. Lexa. Down to two.” Clarke smiles at the girl again – she still feels nervous. Lexa Woods makes her feel nervous, and Clarke isn’t sure why, but she’s pinning it on the fact that Lexa seems like she’s _really_ smart (she’s got T.S. Eliot on her desk and a textbook indicates that she’s apparently in Advanced Placement Sciences), and Clarke hopes she isn’t about to completely get shown up by this new girl.

 

(Also, Lexa Woods is incredibly pretty, and Clarke always feels nervous around pretty girls, but she thinks this is because it’s just pretty people in general who make her nervous. Whatever. It’s fine.)

 

*

 

It’s a rickety start, but Lexa thinks she will like this little high school. The people here in Canyon City are nicer than they were in Prineville.

 

Clarke and Lexa get started on their project – the assignment is to construct a creative interpretation of any novels they have read. Clarke and Lexa opt to do a graphic novel of T.S. Eliot’s _The Hollow Men_.

 

Lexa goes over to Clarke’s house to work on the project. Abigail and Jacob Griffin give her a hearty greeting, inviting Lexa to stay for dinner within ten minutes of meeting her, and Lexa politely accepts the invitation.

 

Lexa is not sure why this girl is being so _friendly_ towards her – in her previous school, an all-girls Catholic school – the girls had always been standoffish, closed off – Clarke Griffin is the complete opposite of this. Lexa is a little thrown off by her character, but she likes the girl already. Clarke’s got a soothing, slightly husky voice, and a calm demeanor about her. She has kind, bright blue eyes that make Lexa feel as if she is truly being listened to when she speaks. Lexa is thrilled that she has possibly already made a new friend, only within a week of switching schools. A _cool_ new friend.

 

Clarke and Lexa go up to Clarke’s room – her parents have apparently given her the entire space of the attic, and for good reason. Lexa’s mouth opens ever so slightly when she sees the spectacle before her.

 

There is art. Everywhere. Acrylic paintings on canvases, hyper-realistic sketches of various people of all shapes and colors and sizes, even little doodles on scrap pieces of lined paper that had clearly originally been used for math homework. There is no telling what color the walls are, as every inch is covered with some form of artwork.

 

“Oh, wow,” is all Lexa can manage to breathe out when she sees it. Clarke turns to her, a little confused.

 

“Huh?” Clarke then follows Lexa’s gaze towards the walls. “Oh.” She laughs nervously, scratching the back of her head. “Yeah, I know, I really need to organize my room a bit, some of these dumb pieces are years old, and my room is a mess –“

 

“No, no, I mean – wow. These are – these are really something else, Clarke.”

 

Clarke is right, though – the room is a bit of a mess, but in a – in a _cute_ way? Lexa can’t help but think that it somehow suits the girl. Lexa moves towards one of the bigger canvases – a large, Picasso-esque painting of a colorful face. “Art, then? That’s what you do?”

 

Lexa sees Clarke shrug, and clear a bunch of papers off of the large table. “Yeah, I mean – I’m mostly doing it as a hobby right now. I know it’s totally unrealistic to be pursuing, like, art as a career, so I’m keeping it as a hobby. It’s hard to get noticed out there, so I’m not too hopeful. As much as I’d love to make a living off of making art, no one really takes me seriously when I say it.” Clarke laughs nervously, and Lexa turns to look at her.

 

She understands the way Clarke is acting right now – Lexa sees it in herself. The way her parents look at her when she says she needs to practice her violin. How reluctant they were to sign the consent forms for Lexa to go on a tour with her orchestra group. Lexa takes a seat across from Clarke. She takes a breath, hoping none of what she says comes off as too forward. “Sorry if I’m way off base here, but… you feel like you need to justify yourself, right?”

 

It’s definitely too forward, but Lexa knows exactly what Clarke is doing – after all, she does the same thing. Playing down her musical ambition, because ‘it’s not a viable career option’. She’d all but given up on trying to explain herself to her family; they were so narrow-minded about it all _._  

 

Her nerves make her babble on, regardless of how aware Lexa is that she needs to stop talking.

 

“I mean, you shouldn’t, have to, but I understand why you do. I mean, I have to explain to people that all I want in life is to sit first violin in the Philharmonic. But it’s not a 'real job’, or whatever, so people don’t get it. But – well, yeah. Anyway, sorry – it’s none of my business, but I had to say _some_ thing.”

 

There’s a moment where Clarke just _stares_ at Lexa, and Lexa is more or less ready to pick up her bag and leave, but slowly, Clarke speaks.

 

“That’s – that’s literally _exactly_ it. Yeah. I feel like I’m always – I feel like I always have to compensate for it all. When people ask what I want to do, I tell them I want to do art, but then I immediately add on something like, I’m doing really well in school for English and Maths and stuff. So I have a fallback. Don’t judge me, you know?”

 

“Yes, and I tell people I’m taking AP courses and am considering majoring in Political Science instead, since my parents want me to, and they’re always so relieved to hear that I have a “more realistic” plan. It’s ridiculous. I’m so glad you can relate.”

 

“Jeez, yeah. Thankfully my parents have been so supportive of me wanting to pursue art as a career, but I’m not so lucky when it comes to other people.”

 

“My parents pretend I don’t even play the violin,” Lexa says, a little bitterly, but then she realizes that Clarke has no idea who Lexa really is, and she immediately backtracks. “Sorry, that made me sound like such a bratty daughter, but –“

 

“No, it’s fine!” Clarke reaches over to briefly touch a hand to Lexa’s forearm. Lexa blinks at the contact, but she thinks she likes it. “I’m really sorry to hear that, but honestly – screw what they say. If you’re good at violin, then great for you. I don’t think it’s fair for any parent to make their kid do something they don’t want to do in favor of something the kid wants to do. That’s just asking for a miserable child.”

 

“My parents are both Catholic and very political.”

 

Lexa sees the look in Clarke’s eyes shift from brightness to a wary kind of suspicion – just like most peoples’ do when Lexa tells them this news. “But I’m not,” she adds on hastily. “They just want me to go into political sciences and be religious nuts like them, but – I managed to learn different ideals. I’m not really Christian and I think their political ideals are bullshit and belong in the 17th century.”

 

Clarke’s eyes are bright again. “Good for you, Lex. Seriously. Stick it to the man, or whatever,” she says, grinning.

 

Lexa gives Clarke a small smile back. She _definitely_ likes Clarke Griffin.

 

*

 

The two of them spend about five minutes in total actually working on their project – the other three are spent talking away about art, violin, classical music, classical art.

 

Clarke has never met anyone quite like Lexa Woods, she thinks.

 

*

 

Lexa has dinner with the Griffins, and it is simultaneously wildly entertaining and a little stressful. Clarke’s parents are just so _smart._ Her mother is a neurosurgeon, and her father is a mechanical engineer. Lexa can see bits of Clarke’s personality from both Abigail and Jacob Griffin. She can also see that Jacob and Clarke seem to have a mutual level of respect for each other; it’s different from what anything Lexa has seen from a father-daughter relationship before. Abigail is kind, but Lexa can tell she can be sharp, disciplined, if she needs to be.

 

After dinner, Clarke takes her to a lake near her house and they sit on the dock for another three hours with hardly a moment of silence between then – and any silence that does occur is comfortable. Clarke sits close to Lexa because it’s getting a little cold, but Lexa doesn’t feel the cold because she just feels the warmth of the happiness she feels about finding a new friend like Clarke.

They hug goodbye and Lexa is still feeling warm and happy by the time she gets back home.

 

She doesn’t even care when her mother yells at her for coming home late.

 

*

 

During her high school years, Lexa goes to a psychiatrist once a week. Her parents had forced her to start going at an early age, when Lexa’s constant, overwhelming fear of going to school and her general dislike of her classmates started to worry them.

 

Her psychiatrist, Dr. Anya Lachman, quickly realizes that the problem lies within the school Lexa goes to, and the way her parents treat her. She diagnoses Lexa with mild generalized anxiety disorder, and Anya is the one to recommend to Lexa’s parents that she switch to a public school. A suggestion that Lexa had been making to her parents for years, but one that was only taken seriously when it came from a trained professional.

 

Clarke and Lexa have now known each other for two months, and Lexa has already found a best friend in the blonde.

 

“…So would it be safe for me to say that she is quite important to you, even at this early stage in your relationship?” Anya asks.

 

“Well, I … I guess so.”

 

“You guess? You don’t sound entirely convinced by what I’m saying.”

 

“No, perhaps not. I don’t know, I mean, I barely know her, is all. How am I supposed to come to any sort of conclusion about that?”

 

“Consider this - for the majority of this session, you’ve done little else but talk about Clarke, and the impact she’s had on your start at your new school, and additionally, if my memory serves correctly, you’ve yet to talk about  _anyone_  at length during our time together, other than your immediate family.”

 

“I, uh, I hadn’t noticed.”

 

“No. This is significant, though, Lexa. I’ve known you for a good number of years now, and I don’t think I’ve seen you this content. Clarke must be quite something.”

 

“You have no idea, at all. She’s wonderful. And I’m really glad to have met her, and to have switched schools. I feel different.” Lexa smiles. “Happier. Much, much happier.”

 

*

 

The day Clarke’s father dies, Lexa has known Clarke for a little less than a year, and she panics when Clarke stops responding to her Facebook messages and texts. Lexa considers calling her, but if she’s done something wrong, she’s sure Clarke does not want to be pestered any further.

 

Six hours after the last text Lexa had sent Clarke, her phone vibrates. A response. Lexa had been practicing her violin as a means of distraction when she all but flung it on the bed to read the message.

 

**Clarke**

i’m sorry i haven’t responded to anything

 

**Lexa**

That’s fine

Did I do something?

Sorry if that seems totally selfish of me, but I’m worried

 

There’s no response for around ten minutes and Lexa feels like she is going to vomit as she goes over all of the possible reasons Clarke could be mad at her.

 

Her phone finally vibrates again.

 

**Clarke**

my dad died

 

Lexa’s hands go cold and her stomach drops and her mouth opens and the biggest throat-lump of all time starts to materialize. 

 

**Lexa**

I’m sorry (DELETED)

Holy shit are you okay (DELETED)

Clarke.

Is there anything I can do. I’m so sorry.

 

 

**Clarke**

i don’t know

my mom is still at the hospital she brought me back home and she’s back there right now

 

A long pause. Lexa’s thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure if she is supposed to respond or not.

 

**Clarke**

can you come over i don’t want to be alone right now

 

Lexa has never ridden her bike anywhere faster.

 

 

She gets there and the door is unlocked. The house is dark and Lexa feels incredibly intrusive as she moves upstairs, to where the office and Abigail and Jake Griffin’s bedroom is. She sees a shaft of light coming from the ladder leading to Clarke’s attic room, and she climbs up halfway, not quite poking her head through the entrance, yet.

 

“Clarke?”

 

She hears Clarke’s voice, brittle and quiet, and Lexa is almost afraid to enter.

 

“Yeah. Come in.”

 

Lexa walks in to see Clarke sitting cross-legged in the middle of the vast area, sitting on the dry paint-covered cloth and furiously scribbling away on a large sketchpad. The sketchpad covers Clarke’s face, and the back of the sketchpad faces Lexa. Lexa slowly walks towards her friend to see that her face is surprisingly blank, without emotion.

 

“Heart attack,” Clarke says, still scribbling on the page. Lexa looks at the page to see that there’s not much going on – a semblance of a human face, but with scribbles all over it. It’s quite haunting. “I found him in the living room on the couch. I thought he was sleeping. Tried to wake him up. He always falls asleep during cooking shows.”

 

Lexa’s heart aches. Her hands still feel cold. Everything still feels cold. She knows that Clarke’s life has now been changed forever, and the most selfish part of her wonders if that will impact their friendship at all.

 

“I’m sorry, Clarke.” Lexa’s voice comes out as a whisper as she sits beside Clarke, cross-legged also, knee touching knee.

 

Clarke says nothing. She just keeps scribbling. Lexa watches, at a loss for words. She has known loss in the form of her grandmother dying, but her grandmother had lived a full life, passing at the age of ninety-four. Clarke’s father was forty-five. An engineer. One of the top workers at his firm. A beautiful wife. A beautiful daughter. Gone.

 

Suddenly, Clarke’s pencil snaps, but she keeps scribbling on the page. Lexa turns to her to see that tears are forming heavy heavy heavy at the bottom of Clarke’s bright blue eyes.

 

“Clarke.” Lexa reaches over, tucks a stray strand of hair behind Clarke’s ear. The tears spill over and Clarke’s face screws up with the effort to not cry.

 

“Clarke,” Lexa repeats it once and Clarke is suddenly sobbing, collapsing into Lexa, her whole body heaving as she cries. Lexa has never seen Clarke like this before. Lexa has never seen Clarke cry before. Lexa, herself, cries with the sight of it all.

 

“You don’t just leave someone like that,” Clarke manages to choke out. Lexa strokes her hair, kisses the top of her head. “We were supposed to go fishing this weekend. I don’t even – I don’t even fucking like fishing and he asked me to go with him. You don’t – you don’t just leave someone – you don’t do that –“

 

“I’m right here, Clarke,” Lexa says, wiping her own tears off her cheeks. “I won’t ever leave. It’s okay. I’m here.”

 

*

 

 

They fall asleep, Clarke in Lexa’s arms, at around 2 in the morning. Abigail Griffin comes home after making funeral arrangements at the hospital to find that Clarke’s attic door is still open and the light is still on. Her face is puffy but she knows she cannot cry while her daughter is in front of her. It would destroy her.

 

She finds her daughter in her bed, wrapped in Lexa Woods’ arms. Abigail moves towards them. She leans over their sleeping bodies.

 

“Thank you, Lexa,” she whispers.

 

Abigail kisses both of their foreheads goodnight and gently places the blanket on top of them, switching the light off and closing the attic door as she leaves.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

 

Clarke watches as movers load her artwork into a van for the auction, although “watches” is a bit of a loose term – she feels like she’s watching smaller, not-green versions of The Hulk roughly handling her artwork, fumbling about with the canvases. When two of them pick up a piece and one of the men almost trips over the curb, she surges forward, stopping when he regains his balance. Raven watches her, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

 

“Calm down, they’ve got it."

 

Clarke sighs. "I know, it's just - this is my last big school show, and my first big art exhibit that's outside of the state.  _New York,_ Raven. Everything has to go perfectly."

 

"It will."

 

* * *

 

Marcus Kane, the conductor, tells Lexa that he has yet to see anyone of her age play the violin as well as she does. Lexa plays Chaconne for him once, twice, and the third time he is brought to tears. Lexa is complimented by members of the orchestra constantly, many of them wondering why she quit playing – amongst those people is Costia.

 

There is less than 24 hours left until the orchestra leaves for Carnegie Hall, and Costia and Lexa have been practicing together in Lexa’s apartment all day.

 

“We could record the piece,” she says. “And you could show your parents, and they could get their socks knocked off once they see you. I mean, I don’t think you’re allowed recording devices, but Dave could probably use his GoPro or something –“

 

“Tried that,” Lexa says, continuing the tenth measure. “Grade ten. They criticized the person who filmed it, said their hands were so shaky. Nothing else.”

 

“God, that’s upsetting,” Costia murmurs. “I don’t know how I would have even continued playing if my parents were so awful about it like they were with you.”

 

“I…had support from friends,” Lexa manages.

 

“That can usually make all the difference, yeah,” Costia remarks, scribbling down a few notes in her sheet music. “You’ve yet to tell me anything about what your life was like before college.” She looks up, smiles at Lexa. “Any friends back home? Sweethearts?”

 

Lexa could do it. She could talk about everything that happened with Clarke with someone for the first time. She wishes she were still living in Oregon, so that she could see Dr. Lachman again.

 

But telling Costia requires telling Costia about the part where she sleeps with her female best friend and leaves her alone in her bed. Lexa knows she is a monster for doing it. She does not want others to know.

 

“I had a few friends here and there,” she says politely, turning the page of her sheet music. “Nothing special.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke is afraid. 

 

She has had art exhibits before, she has had people scrutinizing her work, even people telling her how much they didn't like it - but this is her last school-curated art event. The grand finale. 

 

She walks around the vast gallery. There are a few people here, people who had advance tickets to her show and are mostly here to write journal articles about it before the place gets too crowded.

 

Clarke stands in the middle of the gallery, taking in the sight before her, trying to make sure that every piece aesthetically goes with the piece beside it.

 

A voice sounds from behind her. “This exhibit is truly poignant.”

 

Startled, Clarke whirls to see a brunette man wearing a suit. He has kind eyes and a little bit of scruff, and Clarke is suddenly reminded of her father.

 

He extends a hand. “Sorry if I alarmed you. My name is Marcus Kane. I'm conducting the orchestra playing just around the corner at Carnegie Hall tomorrow night.”

 

"Oh! I'll be going to that," Clarke remarks, shaking his hand. "My name is Clarke Griffin. What brings you here today?"

 

"My friend over there -" Marcus points at one of the people writing away in a notebook, "- is one of the journalists covering this exhibit. He had an extra ticket for me, and I didn't have much else to do during our first night in New York. I decided I would come, and I am glad I did."

 

Once they draw back, Marcus studies the room even further. Clarke can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable, but she always feels uncomfortable when people study her art –  it feels as if she has exposed a part of herself to this stranger, and he is scrutinizing every aspect of it.

 

“The general blue tones of this exhibit tell me that this has all of the different tenors of sadness a human can feel,” he continues. Clarke is greatly appreciative of this – close analyses of her artwork has always made her feel as if her art is something _more_ than just people taking one glimpse and exclaiming “oh my goodness, such a nice exhibit!"

 

Marcus tilts his head as he observes. “Have you heard of the term _synesthesia?_ ” he asks.

 

Clarke nods. “Sachs. Hearing colours or seeing sounds.”

 

“Mozart was one said to have a form of synesthesia. He saw sounds and said that the key of D major had a sort of a warm, orange sound to it, while B-flat minor was black. I see this gallery and I think of…” Marcus hums quietly, eyes looking over the painting. “E minor.”

 

Clarke’s father used to play the guitar – she knows the chord. “A lot of my life was sounding like a big minor chord when I painted all of this."

 

Marcus turns to Clarke again. “Would you be willing to tell me the story behind this exhibit?"

 

Clarke shifts nervously, biting her lip. “There isn't much of one. There is the constant emotion of weariness and sadness, but as for a story - a story requires a beginning and an end." Clarke turns to Marcus. "I haven't quite found an end yet."

 

“A frantic kind of sadness,” Marcus hums. “I'm impressed." He looks around. "I do have to say, many of these paintings - they all have some kind of bittersweet, sad intonations to them. Much like Van Gogh's Blue Era, where all of his paintings were done in multiple shades of blue. This is very reminiscent of that, dare I say I like it better? At the risk of sounding patronizing, you are very young - I've yet to see any young artists quite as successful as you."

 

Clarke blushes. "I just got lucky."

 

"Luck doesn't always have much to do with things in this industry. You do not get lucky if you don't have the talent that deserves it."

 

Marcus's friend approaches Clarke, seeming to realize that she is the curator of this exhibit. Marcus steps back.

 

"Good luck, Clarke. I look forward to having you listen to our concert tomorrow."

 

"And I look forward to being there," Clarke says, smiling.

 

* * *

 

Lexa wears a flowing black dress that covers her feet, and a necklace made of gold, pendant shaped into a circle – a necklace that her grandmother gave to her years ago, the same one that Lexa always wore to every concert she ever performed in. The dress hugs her figure perfectly, blending in with her tanned skin. She had allowed the orchestra’s makeup guru (and stand-up bass player) to get her “just a tiny bit dolled up”.

 

“Gosh, Lexa,” Costia says from behind her as Lexa looks at herself in the lengthwise mirror. “You look stunning.”

 

“Thank you,” Lexa says, eyes straying down to her feet as she blushes slightly. She’s had no reason to get dressed up in years – no concerts, no grad events – and for the first time in a while, she feels beautiful. She feels good about herself, her violin in one hand, bow in another.

 

“Are you feeling ready?”

 

Lexa nods. She’s got _Chaconne_ memorized and could play it in her sleep at this point – it’s just the nerves that come with performing in front of a crowd that gets to her. “A little nervous, but I’m ready.”

 

“I guess you haven’t performed in front of an audience in two years, huh?” Costia says, moving next to Lexa and touching up the rest of her makeup. She looks quite beautiful, too.

 

Lexa used to be able to perform well in front of audiences knowing that She was always there with them. She would know that it wouldn’t matter to Her how many mistakes she made, if she made any (she didn’t), and that was all that was important to her.

 

“Just imagine the crowd naked,” Costia says, smirking. “Works for me.”

 

Lexa chuckles, shaking her head. “I’ll give it a shot. So, what’s the procedure, again?”

 

“We’re going to be playing for an hour and thirty minutes. The last song we’ll play will be Chaconne – your cue will be one of the backstage crew hustling you out onto the stage, and you’ll stand on the right side of Marcus, facing the audience, and then Marcus is going to give a little speech thanking you, Alexandria Woods, for being so generous as to lending your incredible talent to our orchestra for a night. He hopes you’ll join us after this experience,” Costia says, nudging Lexa slightly. Lexa laughs again.

 

“Maybe,” she says.

 

* * *

 

Clarke and Raven get to Carnegie Hall just in time for them to be able to grab seats at the front row of the balconies, directly facing the stage. Clarke knows that this is about as close as a listener can get, while still experiencing the full effect of the acoustics of the vast concert hall.

 

The audience settles down as the orchestra is brought onto the stage, and Clarke sees Marcus Kane take his place at the front. Clarke notes that he apparently does not use a baton to conduct his orchestra.

 

The MC for the night goes to the podium on the left of the stage, and introduces the Berkeley orchestra. Marcus bows as the crowd applauds them in welcome, and he turns back to the orchestra, raising his hands.

 

You could hear a pin drop, the way the audience goes silent. Clarke almost feels as if she must hold her breath, as even that feels far too loud.

 

Listz. Tchaikovsky. Mahler. Schubert. Clarke can name them all without Marcus saying a word to introduce the songs. Clarke knows them because she has listened to each piece with Lexa.

 

Her eyes are closed for most of the time, allowing the sounds to wash over her. She sees the colors that go with each chord, feels the emotions that Mahler must have felt as he wrote Symphony No. 5, understands every movement that Marcus makes to conduct his orchestra.

 

Her eyes are still closed by the time the next song finishes. The audience stays silent until the last ringing chord from the cello ends, and they remain silent until the vibrations stop moving through the theatre.

 

Once she opens her eyes, she stands with the rest of the audience as she applauds. She looks to Raven to see that her friend’s eyes have gone a little misty.

 

They sit back down and the elderly woman sitting beside Clarke turns to her. Her eyes are a little wet, too.

 

“Truly beautiful,” the woman whispers.

 

Clarke nods. Suddenly, she feels Raven poking her arm. She feels Raven starting to poke her arm, fast, but Clarke ignores her as she continues speaking with the woman.

 

“I haven’t been to a classical concert in years,” Clarke says back, smiling. “It looks like that was a huge mistake.”

 

Raven is still poking her. Frustrated, Clarke whirls to face her friend. “ _What?”_

 

Raven is not looking at Clarke, but at the stage. Her lips are parted. Her eyes reflect nothing but shock.

 

Clarke turns to follow Raven’s gaze.

 

She sees a beautiful brunette woman in a black dress, holding a violin, striding towards Marcus, kissing his cheek in greeting, and taking her place beside him.

 

Clarke knows that woman. She knows her. She knows what necklace the woman is wearing. She feels cold, all of a sudden. As if she had once been in a warm, heated room in the middle of the winter, but the windows have flown open and cold, brittle wind fills the space around her.

 

Words do not come to her. They can’t anyway, because the audience has gone silent again, and Clarke feels frozen in her seat. She feels Raven grip her wrist tightly, as if Raven is afraid that Clarke will run away.

 

(It’s a good thing, too, because Clarke feels like that is a very possible possibility.)

 

Marcus is given a microphone by the MC.

 

“I know that in your brochures, it detailed a Vanessa Lee playing the spotlight solo of the night. Unfortunately, by the time the brochures were mass-printed, Miss Lee dropped out due to unforeseen circumstances. But there is always a silver lining to every dark cloud.”

 

Marcus turns to the brunette, who gives him a small smile. “We could not find anyone who could learn the _Chaconne_ solo in time for this concert. Just as we considered dropping the piece, which would call for a rather lackluster finale, the classical gods gave us a blessing. A blessing in the form of one of the most talented young violinists I have ever seen.”

 

Clarke breathes in sharply.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen; I would like you all to give a warm welcome, and thank-you, to Alexandria Woods.”

 

Clarke’s hands are shaking.

 

Lexa brings her violin up to her chin. She tunes with the orchestra.

 

Then there is silence again as Marcus raises his hands.

 

The low notes begin. They strike minor chords and Clarke doesn’t have to close her eyes to see whirls of dark greys, dark blues, black. All surrounding Lexa.

 

Marcus turns to Lexa as the orchestra plays their chords. He gives Lexa her cue.

 

Lexa begins to play and Clarke’s ears begin to ring. She sees the same kind of passion she saw in all of Lexa’s previous concerts; Lexa moves with the music, her eyes closed, not needing to read any sheet music. It is as if with every movement she makes, a note plays. It almost feels as if you could not have one without the other – the music without the movement, the movement without the music. Clarke feels the woman beside her shift, and she watches as the woman places a hand over her heart. Then her eyes are back on Lexa. Raven’s hand loosens with every note that is played. Clarke exhales slowly, realizing that she has been holding her breath. Her body trembles when the song grows louder, crescendos that make her feel as if she is being swept away in the most powerful kind of wind.

 

The song is ten minutes long, but it feels like one. The final chords play and Lexa moves as if the chords sway her and Clarke would go down on her knees for Lexa Woods.

 

The final chords play. Clarke’s heart is still beating out of her chest. She is crying, but she does not realize until the audience is cheering louder than they have all night, on their feet, and Clarke remains seated, stunned, with Raven by her side. Lexa holds her violin back down at her side as she looks around the stage and the audience with wonder, and Clarke sees a 16-year-old Lexa Woods telling her that her dream is to play in front of an audience at Carnegie Hall.

 

Marcus takes Lexa’s hand, gives her a hearty hug, and the orchestra all stands up to take their bow when Lexa and Marcus do.

 

“You did it,” Clarke whispers.

 

“You did it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promise they'll reunite in the next chapter. Please don't hate me for not having it happen in this one. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wide-eyed, both in silence  
> wide-eyed, like we're in a crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, you're going to see Clarke & Lexa reunite, along with a few important conversations from the past that they had with the important people in their lives. 
> 
> Happy reading! Thanks so much for all of your kudos + kind comments. :)

**Three Years Ago**

 

 

“Lexa, where did you go just now?”

 

Lexa looks up, startled, when Anya Lachman speaks.

 

“I apologize. I haven’t said much today, have I?”

 

Anya shakes her head. “No, you haven’t, but that’s fine – is there a reason you haven’t said much?”

 

Lexa sinks back on the couch, staring out the rain-streaked window. “I’m worried about Clarke.”

 

“Because her father died?”

 

Lexa nods. “She’s still got her mom, and her mom is one of the strongest women I’ve ever met, but her relationship with her father –“ she sighs, looking down and fiddling her thumbs, “It’s just something that every person who’s ever had a bad relationship with their father dreams of having. And now he’s gone. Clarke has to be heartbroken.”

 

“I’m sure she is, but what, exactly, are the emotions _you_ feel when it comes to Jacob Griffin’s death?”

 

Chuckling a little, Lexa meets Anya’s eyes. “Is that fancy speak for the cliché “ _and how do you feel about that”_?”

 

Anya smirks, crossing her legs and leaning back in her armchair. “I guess it is.”

 

Lexa pauses, thinking about her answer. “This is going to make me sound like a terrible person, but I’m – I’m afraid. I’m afraid that this might, I don’t know – put some kind of a barrier in our friendship.”

 

Anya is the only person Lexa could possibly admit something like that to – something as hidden as her own selfishness, her own insecurity of losing all those who are close to her.

 

“A barrier?” Anya raises an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

 

“It’s just – I’m just afraid that she’s going to shut everyone out. I know death can do that to you. My mom hardly left her room for days after my grandmother died.”

 

“And you don’t want Clarke to shut you out.”

 

“No, of course not. She’s pretty much one of the only friends I’ve made at my new school. Clarke’s the only one who approached me when I first got there. Everyone else made me feel like – I don’t know –“

 

“Alienated?”

 

Lexa nods. “Everyone already had their friends by the time I got there. Clarke didn’t care about that. She welcomed me to her friend group, and by extension, her friend group welcomed me. I don’t want to lose her. I know I’ve only known her for a year now, but I’m already finding it hard to imagine life without her.”

 

“I see.”

 

Lexa continues. “Honestly, Anya, I still can’t believe I’ve met someone like her. She makes me want to be a better person.”

 

“You’ve mentioned that a few times now.” Anya tilts her head a little to the right, and Lexa sighs. She knows that look. It’s the look Anya gives her whenever she’s got something to say that she knows Lexa might not like.

 

“Okay, give it to me,” she says, exasperated.

 

“What?”

 

“You want to say something to me.”

 

Anya clears her throat, looks down at her notebook, and then looks back up at Lexa. “Lexa, my apologies if this happens to cross any sort of lines, but is it possible that you may have feelings for your new friend?”

 

“Feelings?” Lexa blanks out for a minute, then she realizes what Anya is talking about. She feels her face go red and her palms go a little clammy. “Feelings? What?” Lexa shakes her head. “Like, _lesbian_ feelings?”

 

Anya just stares at Lexa. “Well –“

 

“Absolutely not. God. I mean – I’m not – I’m not homophobic – but I’m _not_ gay. Not for Clarke, or for anyone. She’s just one of my best friends, and I care about her a lot, and –“

 

“Okay, Lexa,” Anya leans forward, nodding. “I understand.”

 

Lexa visibly deflates on the couch. “Sorry. That was just a weird thing for you to say.”

 

“Again, I apologize. That was merely hypothetical.”

 

“Besides, even if I _were_ a lesbian, could you imagine what my parents would have to say about that?”

 

Anya nods, a speculative look still on her face. “You’re right.”

 

Lexa chuckles, a strange sense of dread washing over her. “I’d get disowned. Seriously. It’s bad enough that I want to play the violin as a career, and I left Catholic school, and sometimes I skip grace before dinner.”

 

“It seems like you’ve thought about this before.”

 

“Well, yeah – I mean, doesn’t every teenager think about what life would be like if certain circumstances of their lives were different? Like, mom’s secretly a heroin addict, maybe dad left before you were born, you’ve got an older brother who keeps getting suspended from school, you’re gay? What if, right?”

 

“Perhaps.” Anya writes a few things down in her notebook. “So, back to Clarke. Has she shut herself off from you since that night you stayed over after her father died?”

 

“I – I guess not. She’s quieter than she was before, but she still talks to me. And asks me to come over often. It’s weird because her and her mom have me over for dinner, and at dinner they act like everything’s normal, but everything’s not. Everything’s quieter with them.”

 

“So it goes with loss in a family. If what you’re saying is true, and Clarke and her mother are as strong as you say they are, the pain will eventually fade for them, hopefully faster than most.”

 

“Yeah. Hopefully.”

 

“Clarke is lucky to have you there for her.”

 

Lexa nods. “Of course I’m going to be there for her. Just like she was for me when I had no friends at a new school and no one would be my partner for our English project.”

 

“What do your parents make of your new friend? I know they’re very curious about your school life in general.”

 

Lexa scoffs, waves her hand. “They don’t like her because she’s into art. And they think she’s the reason I’ve been more motivated to pursue violin as a career, and that I’ve been staying out way later at parties and stuff.”

 

“Isn’t she, though?”

 

 

“She is, but none of those things are bad things. Clarke always looks up opportunities for me to perform songs, to sub in for orchestras that need violinists, all of it. And I actually have _friends,_ now.”

 

“And I see you’ve been flourishing as a result, Lexa.”

 

Lexa nods, looking at Anya as another realization makes its way into her head.

 

“I never tried that hard for myself until Clarke came along.”

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

 

“Clarke, don’t –“

 

“Raven, I’ll meet you in the lobby, I have to do this –“

 

“Clarke, you need to think about things first, look at you –“

 

“ _Raven._ ”

 

Clarke is currently fighting against Raven’s grip as she attempts to make her way to the backstage area, where she’s sure Lexa is. Reluctantly, Raven lets go.

 

“Please be rational.”

 

“I’m rational,” Clarke says, walking away.

 

She gets to the entrance of the backstage area and is about to walk in when a man wearing all black stops her. His shirt says ‘SECURITY’.

 

“Sorry, ma’am, but only performers and stage crew are allowed back there.”

 

“Look, I just need five minutes, this is urgent –“

 

“The orchestra will be changed and out in twenty minutes. You can talk to whomever it is you need to talk to at the reception event. No exceptions.”

 

_What if Lexa isn’t there by the time that happens?_

 

“Fine. Look, just tell – tell Marcus Kane, the conductor, that Clarke Griffin is looking for Lexa Woods.”

 

The security guard stares at her for a moment, then nods slowly.

 

“Thank you,” she says gruffly, whirling around and walking away.

 

* * *

 

“Lexa, you were _amazing._ I’m pretty sure most of the orchestra wants to ask you to marry them right now. Myself included. Marcus included. You should have seen his face when you were playing.

 

Costia is outside of the changing rooms as Lexa gets herself into a more casual black dress. Lexa grins.

 

“Thank you, Costia.”

 

“You can’t not join us after that. Seriously.”

 

Lexa leaves the changing room, black dress draped over her arm, and Costia takes it, hanging it up on one of the hooks on the adjacent wall. “I could see what my parents have to say about it.”

 

“Parents, shmarents,” Costia scoffs, following Lexa out to the corridor of the backstage area. Suddenly, Costia slides a hand over Lexa’s wrist, stopping Lexa in her tracks. Lexa turns to see that her friend is looking at her with a speculative and sympathetic look on her face, and Lexa has to make a conscious effort to not pull away from the grasp. She hates that look. She hates everything it implies.

 

“Seriously, Lexa,” Costia says, “You’re twenty years old. How much longer are you going to let your parents dictate what you do with your life?”

 

Lexa opts to pull away, but in a nice way, not in the forceful way that she wants to go with. Lexa is getting visibly frustrated. No one ever seems to quite understand Lexa and the relationship with her parents – except for one person, but Lexa doesn’t want to be thinking about that right now.

 

“Costia, being raised the way I was – they may not give me the freedom I desire, but they are still my parents. They still raised me, they still help me financially with school, all of it.”

 

“But –“

 

“I understand that your parents support your dream of pursuing classical music as a career and having Gender and Women Studies as your major, and clearly they support the fact that you’re attracted to women. You’re lucky because you have nothing to fight them with. But imagine your parents not supporting you through any of that. And you depend on them because they’re all you’ve got now. What would you do?”

 

“The first part of what you just said.” Costia’s eyes harden. “What is that supposed to mean?”

 

Lexa backtracks, realizing the insult in her previous words. “I’m –“

 

“Are you trying to imply that there’s something wrong with wanting to do classical music as a career? Being a Gender Studies major? Being a lesbian?”

 

A few people pass by them in the corridors, warily eyeing them as they pass by. Lexa is desperate to not cause a scene.

 

“Costia, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

 

Costia looks down at her feet, then back up at Lexa. “Okay. I’m just going to be honest with you. Your life is really hard. I get it. I can’t imagine having parents that don’t support the things you love. But Lexa?” Costia looks Lexa straight in the eye, and Lexa, once again, struggles to ignore the ‘fight or flight’ mechanism so solidly built in her system. “You can’t take it out on other people like this. It’s not fair.”

 

Lexa watches as Costia strides off, and she’s about to turn around to the exit and go back to their hotel room, but then she turns around and Marcus is walking towards her and she turns back because she can’t have the “join our orchestra” conversation again, but then –

 

“Lexa!”

 

Reluctantly, she turns around.

 

“Lexa.” Marcus stands in front of her. “You don’t quite have the demeanor of a woman who just executed one of the most perfect Chaconne solos I’ve seen in all history,” he remarks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Is there a certain demeanor for that kind of person?” she asks drily.

 

Marcus shrugs. “I guess not. Will you be going to the after-reception? There’ll be champagne.”

 

Lexa shakes her head. “I think I just want to go back to the hotel. It’s – it’s not the best night for me.”

 

Marcus inhales, nods, watches Lexa as she speaks. “I could always lend an empathetic ear, if need be.”

 

Lexa is about to refuse, politely thank Marcus for his offer, but she’s not sure how much longer she can refuse help from others for. She runs a hand through her loose hair in frustration.

 

“I – I don’t know. I feel as if I’m always letting people down. And like I don’t ever do things for myself anymore. And it’s getting so _fucking_ exhausting – pardon the language,” she adds on hurriedly, but Marcus dismisses this by waving his hand.

 

“May I speak?”

 

Lexa nods.

 

Marcus’s eyes wander a little, as if he is carefully choosing his next words.

 

“Alexandria, I don’t know you very well, but I can assure you of one thing – being the conductor of a college orchestra – I am continuously being let down. People like Vanessa Lee always drop out at crucial times. Players tell me they don’t care about the music anymore, and they leave. People don’t practice, and I end up having to ask them to leave the orchestra. But you?” Marcus points a finger at Lexa.

 

“When Costia Abramov approached me, telling me the winner of Julliard’s competition could possibly play for us, I didn’t expect much. I knew of you long before she brought you up, and I knew that you had stopped playing years ago. This concert at Carnegie was one of the most vital moments of my entire career – I’m not sure if you know this, but I’ve only been conducting at Berkeley for three years. If I put on a bad performance, ruin the reputation of Berkeley in front of a few of the most prestigious musicians in the _world,_ it was all but possible that I would lose my job. But then you came into my office, and you told me you’d do it. You played the solo for me. Did you do that just to impress me? Your peers? Or did you do it for yourself? And if you did it for you, ask yourself how it felt.”

 

“I did it because I missed playing the violin and I wanted to help, but –“

 

“No ‘buts’, Lexa. You saved my career, and you’ve inspired so many students in this orchestra who were considering quitting after this concert. Some have told me they want to purposefully fail courses, just so they can stay with us longer and learn more.” Marcus and Lexa both chuckle at this.

 

“As for any mistakes you have made previous to you temporarily joining our orchestra, remember that there is always a chance for you to –“

 

A voice sounds from behind them.

 

“Marcus Kane?”

 

Marcus turns, and Lexa sees a security guard walking towards them.

 

“That’s me,” Marcus says, warily.

 

“A blonde girl was looking for you at the backstage entrance. Said her name is Clarke Griffin, and she told me to tell you that she’s looking for your soloist. Lexa Woods.”

 

Lexa’s heart may as well have stopped in this moment as she snaps to attention. She slowly starts backing away, eventually turning to walk far, far away from this place.

 

“Lexa Woods?” Marcus starts to turn. “She’s right –“

 

He sees Lexa walking away from him. “Lexa! Lexa, did you hear that?”

 

Lexa doesn’t respond. She can’t. She starts to walk faster and faster as she starts to make her way out of the backstage area, to the lobby, where she will be able to exit the concert venue and stumble back home.

 

* * *

 

**3 Years Ago**

 

“She tried to kiss me.”

 

Lexa stands at Anya’s office window, watching a flock of crows fly by.

 

Anya’s voice sounds from behind her. “Clarke did?”

 

“We were smoking pot by the lake, and we were getting a little silly, and she just – put her hand on my cheek and started leaning in.” Startled, Lexa turns around to face Anya. "Wait, you're not legally allowed to tell anyone I smoked pot, right? My parents?"

 

Anya shrugs. "I'm not, but I _am_  allowed to tell you that it isn't going to help you with your anxiety, and I am allowed to recommend you stop smoking it."

 

Lexa waves her hand. "That's a problem for some other time. I simply wanted to make sure."

 

“Okay. I heard you say she _tried._ Is that to say that you didn’t reciprocate?”

 

“Of course I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

 

“What did you make of her trying to kiss you?”

 

Lexa stays silent for a long moment, mulling over her answer.

 

“Nothing. We were high. I’m not sure why I even told you about that. It wasn’t a big deal.” Lexa turns to Anya, who observes her with a rather curious gaze.

 

“Can we talk about something else, now?”

 

*

 

Lexa stops discussing Clarke with Anya altogether.

 

“She’s my best friend. That’s it,” are the words commonly used whenever Anya tries to bring her up.

 

A few months later, after her and Clarke’s first kiss, Lexa gets her parents to call Anya and let her know that she won’t be going to sessions anymore. She claims that she can make do without Anya anymore, and her parents are more than happy to oblige (therapy was costing them _a lot_ ).

 

She tells herself it’s because she’s fine now, and she doesn’t need therapy anymore. It has _nothing_ to do with the fact that Anya keeps telling her things she does not want to hear.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

 

Clarke is waiting for an old dude to stop mansplaining Mozart to her so she can continue searching for Lexa. The orchestra has now come out to the reception area, being greeted by family, conductors, and the like. No sign of Lexa, or Raven, at that, but Clarke is sure that Raven geeking out with one of the sound and lighting technicians somewhere about Carnegie’s setup.

 

_Where are you, Lexa?_

 

* * *

 

Lexa finally makes it out to the reception hall, where the entrance to Carnegie is (her exit). Her breath is caught in her throat. She needs to leave. _Now._

 

“Alexandria Woods?”

 

A man whom Lexa instantly recognizes Marc-Anthony Turnage, one of the most prolific American composers of his time, approaches her. She stops in her tracks, not quite believing what she is seeing.

 

“I - yes,” she says, taking Turnage’s hand and shaking it when he extends it.

 

“My name is Marc-Anthony Turnage.”

 

“I know,” Lexa says, trying to forget her current goal of getting the _fuck_ out of here. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

 

“The honor is mine, Alexandria,” Turnage says, “My wife and I were moved to tears when we heard your solo. Is there a business number or email that I can reach you at? We _must_ collaborate.”

 

“Um, not at the moment, but –“ Lexa awkwardly scratches the side of her head. “Marcus Kane, the conductor of Berkeley’s orchestra, has his email up on the brochures. Maybe contact him, and I’ll have something set up by the time you do?”

 

“I would absolutely love that,” Turnage says, reaching out to shake Lexa’s hand in farewell. “So great to meet you. I look forward to hearing what more you have in store for us.”

 

When he walks away, Lexa starts to feel a little lighter, a little better, but then she sees the sight that Turnage was covering when he was facing Lexa.

 

On the other side of the room, staring directly at Lexa, is a beautiful blonde woman holding a glass of champagne.

 

She wears a black blazer, paired with a beige blouse and high-waisted black pants.

 

She looks immaculate, powerful, incredibly poised for someone of her age.

 

Lexa’s ears begin to ring.

 

* * *

 

Clarke slowly starts to move towards her. Her heart aches. Her heart aches _so much._ Lexa had looked stunning, _striking,_ on stage, but Clarke is now closer in proximity to Lexa Woods than she has been in two years and she is so beautiful that Clarke’s heart hurts.

 

Because after two years of no longer knowing Lexa Woods, after two years of _wondering_ if Lexa would ever come back to her -

 

Clarke _knows_ that she still loves her.

 

She puts the champagne glass, still half-full, on a countertop as she walks. Lexa does not move. Clarke stands in front of her, holding her breath.

 

Lexa’s voice comes out sounding strangled.

 

“Clarke.”

 

Clarke has not heard her name said in that voice for too long. She feels as if her knees may give in soon.

 

“Lexa.” Clarke still feels as if someone else is speaking for her. Her voice comes out thick, as if her throat too full of words, the words she has not been saying to Lexa for two years. It feels as if they are all perched just underneath Clarke’s chin.

 

Lexa starts to back away. Her breathing is audibly erratic. “I’m – I’m s-sorry, I – I just need to – I need some air –“

 

And then she starts striding towards the back exit at the lobby – but Clarke can’t let Lexa walk away from her. Not again.

 

When she is out the door, she does not immediately see Lexa in the alleyway, but then she looks to her left to see that Lexa is sitting down, back against the wall, staring at the opposite wall and breathing, hard.

 

Clarke carefully begins walking towards Lexa, as if Lexa is a wild animal that will bolt at any sudden movements.

 

Lexa is having a panic attack. Clarke knows this, because her mother started having them after her father died. Lexa is having a panic attack, and a bad one, at that.

 

When Clarke gets to her, she slides down the wall of the alley, sitting beside her. She tentatively places a hand on Lexa’s back as Lexa hyperventilates, and Lexa flinches slightly, but does not move away. Clarke gently starts rubbing her back.

 

“Breathe,” she whispers, her voice starting to break, “It’s okay. Breathe.”

 

She doesn’t know what to do.

 

She has two options:

 

 

One - she leaves Lexa here and none would be the wiser. It’s not as if she does not have the right to walk away. Clarke could do it. She could do it easily. All she has to do is stand up, head back inside, leave, and never speak to Lexa again. After all, hadn’t Lexa walked away from Clarke, first?

 

Two - she stays. She stays until Lexa is calm enough to speak, or maybe even walk away from Clarke, before Clarke has a chance to do so herself. Of course, Clarke knows she cannot handle Lexa walking away from her again, but right at this moment, she just wishes for Lexa to be okay. This is not the same Lexa Woods that Clarke once knew in their high school days. She has never seen Lexa like this before – unable to speak, unable to move – and the helplessness Clarke feels is similar to the way she felt when she watched Lexa leave their graduation ceremony, the way she felt when she saw Lexa for what she knew would be the last time.

 

Clarke picks option two. For all Lexa has done to her, for everything they have been through together, Clarke stays.

 

“Keep breathing, you’re doing great,” she says, her voice still shaky. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come up to you like that. I just didn’t know what else to do. Seeing you, here—well, it’s not like I’m about to ignore you – and – I’m sorry.”

 

“Please, _please_ do not apologize,” Lexa says, sniffling, “Thank you for helping me just now.” For a fleeting moment, Lexa takes Clarke’s hand, squeezes it in thanks.

 

Watery green eyes meet misty blue eyes and the tears in Clarke’s threatening to spill over start to do so the minute she looks at Lexa.

 

“It’s so good seeing you, Lexa,” Clarke says, giving her a watery smile. This is the truth. “I think it caught us both off guard, but maybe freaking out isn’t the best idea for either of us.”

 

“I agree,” Lexa says, chuckling and wiping tears off of her cheeks. 

 

“We can – we don’t have to –“ Clarke takes another breath. “We don’t have to act as if we don’t know each other. We’re both adults now, and I think we can handle it. I think I can,” Clarke says in a relatively steady voice. There is _so much more_ she wants to say, _needs to say,_ but this is neither the time, nor the place. Raven is likely looking for her, and Lexa probably has loads of composers and famous musical people wanting to speak with her – as much as Clarke would like to sit here and speak with Lexa for hours, she knows this is not realistic.

 

“I’m sorry, Clarke.” Lexa’s voice interrupts her thoughts. “I know that ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t begin to cover a fraction of the two years we’ve lost, but I’d like to start with that.”

 

While Clarke is still desperate for answers – _why did you leave me? Why did you cut me out? –_ and while it isn’t just _okay_ – _it’s not okay. You broke my heart. And you left it like that for two years. –_ she sighs, leans her head back against the wall, and says, “It’s okay.”

 

Another silence. Cars rush past them, and she can hear laughter from inside of the reception hall.

 

Lexa is the first to speak. “What are you doing here? Do you – do you live here?”

 

Clarke ignores the twinge of pain she feels in her stomach as she realizes that Lexa knows close to nothing about her life anymore. The pain she feels as she realizes she knows nothing about Lexa’s life anymore. She shakes her head, starting to feel a little weary.

 

“I have my final art exhibit for school at the David Zwirner gallery tomorrow night. I live in Connecticut right now, and I’m finishing up a fine arts degree at Yale. My friend said there was a concert here, and we figured we’d come.”

 

Clarke looks at Lexa. “I’m not certain as to whether that was a good thing or not. Still trying to decide.”

 

Lexa takes in a deep breath, finally steadying. “That depends.”

 

“On what?”

 

Lexa rolls her head to the side, glancing at Clarke. “What happens next?”

 

Clarke swallows, staring across at the brick wall, unsure of how to respond – on one hand, she still has that _stupid_ flicker of hope in her heart, that maybe, just _maybe,_ Lexa feels (or at least _felt_ ) the same way about her, that they could start over, be together the way Clarke has wanted for years; on the other, Lexa left Clarke. Lexa left Clarke for two years. Two years of heartache, two years of not being able to fall for anyone else, two years of feeling like the loneliest person in the entire world, regardless of the friends she had.

 

She is honest with Lexa. “I don’t know. I’m staying in New York for another three days while my exhibit runs.”

 

Lexa shakes her head, looking at her hands. “I leave tomorrow afternoon. We only flew out here for the concert, and Berkeley won’t pay for accommodations longer than two days.”

 

“Will you be going back to Oregon? For the summer?” Clarke asks tentatively.

 

Lexa nods. “Yes. My parents are desperate for me to go back and repent for the sins I’ve surely committed during my time in college.”

 

Clarke gazes at Lexa with a sympathetic but amused look on her face. “Nothing has changed with them, huh?”

 

“They’re pretty much the only thing in my life that have stayed as a constant,” Lexa murmurs. “Will you be back?”

 

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “I’m going to live there for the next few months while I figure out what to do with my degree. And I miss my mom, and Wells, and everyone else back home.”

 

“I miss them too,” Lexa says quietly, observing Clarke, green eyes tinged with sadness. Clarke meets her gaze again, briefly looking down at Lexa’s lips ( _stop it_ ), then back up at Lexa’s eyes.

 

“You should come visit when we’re both back in Oregon,” Clarke says softly, “My mom misses you. Probably more than she misses me.”

 

Lexa laughs, a little bitterly. “That surprises me. Our last encounter was me running away from her house after –“

 

Clarke swiftly glances up at Lexa.

 

“- Never mind,” Lexa whispers.

 

Clarke swallows, opting to not push Lexa further (she’s afraid Lexa will run again – she wonders if this fear will ever fade from here on out). “There are probably people in there looking for us right now,” she says, clearing her throat and standing. “Shall we?”

 

She hesitantly reaches her hand out for Lexa to take, and she can sense Lexa deliberating before she slides her hand in Clarke’s, allowing Clarke to help pull her up.

 

“God, look at us,” Lexa says, chuckling, pulling her hand out of Clarke’s hold – Clarke acts nonchalant about this, but it makes her feel a little upset. “If I’d known my night would be like this, I wouldn’t have let the makeup person slather all that smudgable stuff on my face.”

 

Clarke opens the door to the lobby again. “You look fine, Lexa. You look - you look beautiful.” It’s actually kind of unfair, how Lexa still looks strikingly gorgeous after a panic attack. Clarke’s face feels puffy from crying and the back of her hair is probably mussed up from leaning on the wall.

 

After a beat, Lexa smiles at Clarke. A genuine smile. Clarke can’t help but smile back.

 

“Thank you, Clarke. You look really great, too.”

 

* * *

 

**2 Years Ago**

 

Clarke hasn’t left her room since her mother offered her French toast and bacon and tea and since she cried in her kitchen and since Lexa fucked her and left her there without saying goodbye.

**Clarke**

lexa i’m sorry about last night.

it doesn’t have to be a big deal

like we can pretend it never happened if you want but i do think we should at least try to be productive and talk about it before we do that.

 

Then, two hours later:

**Clarke**

please come back

 

*

 

She hears knocking on her attic door at around 4 in the afternoon. Abigail had called her down for lunch earlier, but Clarke had declined, and currently she opts to not agree to let her mother in.

 

Abigail comes in without Clarke really saying whether she can come in or not. Clarke wonders what the point of knocking even is if you’re just going to come in without permission, anyway.

 

“Clarke.”

 

Clarke rolls in her bed, facing the wall. Abigail stands next to her bed, arms crossed.

 

“That’s enough of this. Either you tell me what’s going on, or I drag you out of bed, myself.”

 

Clarke does not respond, and she hears her mother sigh.

 

There’s a long pause, and Clarke is hopeful that Abby will leave soon, but suddenly –

 

“Did you sleep with her?”

 

Clarke bolts upright in her bed, staring at Abigail, a bewildered look on her face. “Excuse me?”

 

“Don’t play dumb, Clarke. You have a hickey above your collarbone, there –“

 

Clarke covers her collarbone with her hand.

 

“- and Lexa bolts out at near five in the morning, hardly saying a word to me. Adding two and two, Clarke,” her mother says, sitting down on the bed. “You’d have to be dense to not figure it out.”

 

“I –“ Clarke is panicking. “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m still – I don’t –I still like guys, but girls, too, I think I – “

 

“It’s okay,” Abigail says, her voice much quieter, less assuming, as she reaches to take Clarke’s hand in her own, “Calm down. Tell me what happened.”

 

Clarke can’t help the slight sigh of relief that escapes her lips at her mother’s nonchalant manner. “You…so, it’s fine?”

 

“Clarke.” Her mother still holds her hand, raising her free hand to brush loose hair behind Clarke’s ear. “Of course it is. You’re still my little girl –“

 

“Mom, I’m eighteen –“

 

“You’re still my _annoying_ little girl who won’t stop interrupting me when I speak,” Abigail says pointedly, and Clarke closes her mouth, leaning back against the headboard, “As long as you’re happy, I’m happy, okay?”

 

Clarke begins to tear up, one part due to her mother’s kindness and complete acceptance and another part due because of Lexa.

 

“Now, will you _please_ tell me what’s going on?”

 

Sniffling, Clarke wipes the tears forming in her eyes, but they keep coming regardless. “Basically what you saw,” she murmurs, “We had - we had a night together, and now she’s not responding to any of my messages or phone calls.”

 

“Maybe she just needs time,” Abigail suggests, “I’m assuming you’re the first person she’s – you know –“

 

“Don’t be _weird_ , mom –“

 

“- _been with_ , and it’s not exactly orthodox for someone of her upbringing to have her first time be with another woman. Could you understand that?”

 

Clarke sighs, thumping the back of her head against the headboard. “I can, but – we’re best friends. And we’re supposed to talk about things like this together. I just want to know how she’s doing with it all.”

 

“Maybe allow her some space,” Abigail says, “And come downstairs and eat something. You’re helping no one by staying up here, right now.”

 

“What if she doesn’t ever want to talk to me anymore?” Clarke whispers, her voice sounding hopeless and the tears coming back.

 

“Give it time, Clarke. She’ll come back to you, eventually.”

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

 

Lexa and Clarke spend the rest of the night mingling with the others at the reception, sometimes together, sometimes separate, but they seem to continuously find a way back to each others sides. They exchange phone numbers for when they're back in Oregon at the same time.

 

After Clarke and Lexa give each other their phone numbers, Raven emerges from the crowd, after presumably having another conversation with one of the techies, and the minute she sees Lexa, her expression hardens, giving her the up-down glance that Clarke has seen her give _so_ many people before. Like Clarke's landlord that refused to pay to fix her ceiling (Raven yelled at him until he was so scared that he fixed it, plus a broken tile in the bathroom that Clarke hadn't even noticed), or this one guy that wouldn't stop bugging Clarke after a one-night stand at a party (Raven yelled at him until he was so scared that he apologized to Clarke and pretty much ran away after). Clarke doesn't like that look. Clarke is scared by that look.

 

“Raven,” Clarke says, uneasily, “This is Lexa.”

 

She desperately hopes for Raven to not make it blatantly obvious that Raven knows pretty much everything about Lexa Woods, that Lexa _never_ finds out how much Clarke pined for her for years after to this girl.

 

Raven clears her throat, her expression still neutral. “Lexa. I’m Raven.”

 

There’s an uncomfortable pause, and Clarke shoots Raven a look of desperation. Raven raises an eyebrow at her, but then quickly gets herself together.

 

“Your solo was really good.”

 

“Thank you,” Lexa says gently, a smile appearing on her face. At the sight of this, Raven’s expression visibly softens, and Clarke remembers the effect of Lexa Woods smiling at you, her full lips gradually curving up and the smile reaching her eyes, how you can’t help but to smile back because it looks as if it is the rarest thing in the entire world.

 

There’s another moment, and then Raven is looking at Clarke. “We need to head back to our hotel, Clarke,” she says, “You have an interview with that New York Press columnist in the morning, remember?”

 

“Shit, yeah,” Clarke says, checking her watch to see that it’s nearing one in the morning. She looks at Lexa, then back at Raven.

 

Raven glances back at Clarke, then at Lexa, then back at Clarke again. “Oh, yeah, sorry, I totally interrupted whatever it is you guys were discussing. I’ll wait outside. It was nice meeting you, Lexa,” she adds on.

 

“Nice meeting you, too, Raven,” Lexa responds. Once Raven leaves, Lexa faces Clarke.

 

“You’re leaving? Already?”

 

“I have to. The later I go to bed, the more strength you have to use to drag me out of it the next morning, and –“

 

“Don’t go, Clarke.” After she says this, Lexa closes her eyes briefly, a look of slight embarrassment crossing her face. "I mean - yeah."

 

 _Don’t go, Clarke._ Clarke wants to preserve that sentiment in amber. She wants ‘ _Don’t go, Clarke’_ engraved on her tombstone.

 

“I have to,” Clarke says finally. “But I’ll see you back home?”

 

It’s a question, not a statement, and Lexa seems to pick up on this. She nods slowly. “Yes. I’ll see you back home.”

 

Without thinking about it, Clarke goes in to hug Lexa goodbye, and she’s about to pull back when Lexa doesn’t immediately react, but suddenly Lexa’s arms are around Clarke and she’s holding her tight, cheek pressed against the side of Clarke’s head.

 

“Good luck with your exhibit, Clarke,” she says as they hold each other. Clarke feels warm all over and so, so comfortable. “You’re going to do great.”

 

“Thanks. I’ll see you later, Lexa,” Clarke says, pulling back. “Have a good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, you'll see Clarke and Lexa back in Oregon - it'll all come full circle. They've got a loooot to figure out.
> 
> Special thanks for this chapter to Chrmdpoet for being such a great gal.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two feet standing on a principle  
> two hands digging in each other's wounds.

Clarke is convinced that adulthood is one of the biggest shams in the entire universe.

 

Her and Wells are hiking through a forest. This is her second day back in Oregon, and Lexa has yet to contact her.

 

Of course, Clarke spends most of her time actively ignoring this fact.

 

“It’s stupid. We’re expected to handle things like adults, all on our own, and come out of terrible events better and stronger and proactively healed, but we’re not there yet.” Clarke is panting slightly from the uphill gain as she steps over a root. “I don’t know if we’ll ever get there, honestly.”

 

“That’s - extremely depressing,” Wells says slowly. “What makes you say that?” He reaches his hand out once he gets over a particularly high ledge, and pulls Clarke up with him. They continue walking.

 

Clarke picks a leaf out of her hair after they push their way through low-hanging branches. “I don’t know, really. I just don’t get why when you turn 18, you get shipped off to college, and you’re immediately expected to just - sprout some courage. Maybe I’m too scared to do anything. Why is that not allowed?”

 

Wells gives Clarke a sidelong glance. “You should text Lexa, Clarke.”

 

“That’s not – that’s not what I’m - why aren’t we allowed to be scared of anything? That’s all I’m wondering.”

 

“You’re allowed to be scared. Are you scared right now?”

 

Clarke pauses, stopping to take a sip of her water. Wells does the same. She looks around the forest, quiet and immense, and shakes her head.

 

“I’m scared all the time, Wells,” she admits quietly. “All the fucking time.”

 

* * *

 

The day she gets back, Lexa’s parents inform her that they’ll be leaving for one of their strange Catholic retreats with a few of their strange Catholic friends tomorrow. They invite her to come, and she politely declines, citing the need to finish up a few last-minute forms for school.

 

(This is a lie, but there is no way that Lexa going to a _Catholic retreat._ For fuck’s sake.)

 

She spends her first day carefully unpacking her things, and the second day staring at her phone, waiting for Clarke to text her.

 

During this time, she calls another phone number that she has not dialed in over two years. The dial tone rings once, twice, then –

 

“Dr. Lachman speaking.”

 

Lexa opens her mouth, then closes it, then inhales deeply. It’s strange to hear Anya’s voice again, and she’s not sure if Anya is upset with her for ending their sessions so abruptly.

 

“Anya. It’s Lexa. Lexa Woods.”

 

There’s a pause, and Lexa is sure that Anya has either forgotten about her, or she is about to hang up, but then she starts speaking again.

 

“Lexa. It’s so good to hear your voice. How have you been?”

 

“I’m – um – I guess that’s why I’m calling you.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Would you – I mean, I understand if you would maybe not want to take me in as a patient again after I – yeah – but – do you have any slots available? Maybe a day or two from today?”

 

“Of course.” There’s a pause, presumably as Anya checks her schedule. “How does 2pm to 4pm sound, two days from now?”

 

“That works perfectly,” Lexa says, relieved that Anya does not seem angry or in the least bit put off by Lexa’s past actions. “I’ll see you then. Are you still at the same office?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“See you then, Anya.”

 

“Take care, Lexa.”

 

* * *

 

That night, she has dinner with her family. They say grace (or at least, Howard and Elizabeth say grace as Lexa closes her eyes and sees Clarke as if she is painted underneath her eyelids) and Lexa starts to pick at her food.

 

“You seem distracted, Alexandria,” Howard says. “Pass the salt, please.”

 

Lexa passes Howard the salt.

 

“Thank you. How was your year at school?”

 

“Fine,” Lexa says. “Busy.”

 

“And how did exams go?”

 

Lexa clears her throat. “I did well. Straight A’s this semester.”

 

“Good,” Elizabeth says, taking a sip of her wine. “That sets you on a good course for getting into the Masters program.”

 

Doing a masters degree in the Political Sciences is the furthest thing from Lexa’s interests, but she merely nods.

 

Howard speaks next. “How was, er - New York, was it? Your concert at Carnegie?”

 

Surprised, Lexa looks up from her food. Her parents hardly ever ask about her concerts.

 

“It went really well,” she says, starting to feel a little less awkward and a little more hopeful, “ _Marc-Anthony Turnage_ asked me for my contact information –“

 

“Who is that?” Elizabeth says. Lexa shifts in her seat.

 

“Probably one of the most gifted American composers of our time,” she says, unable to make eye contact with her mother.

 

Howard nods. Elizabeth nods. Neither of them say anything in response.

 

Lexa puts her head down again, and the three of them finish their dinner in silence.

 

She gets up to her room and is feeling rather desolate when she goes to pick up her phone. She has five unread text messages.

 

**Clarke**

hi, is this still lexa’s number?

if this isn’t lexa disregard this message

but also if this is lexa and you don’t want to respond then you can also disregard this message

okay i take that last one back i’d rather you not do that

sorry

 

Lexa can’t help the short giggle that escapes her lips.

 

**Lexa**

Sorry! I was having dinner with my parents

 

**Clarke**

oh

i’m a little embarrassed so if you could pretend i didn’t send you five text messages in the span of ten minutes that would be great thanks

 

**Lexa**

No idea what you’re even talking about.

 

**Clarke**

that’s the spirit

are you busy tomorrow? i was wondering if you’d maybe want to go to valley lake with me

weather’s supposed to be great

 

Valley Lake. The lake that Clarke and Lexa would constantly bike to during their high school years. Lexa bites her lip, already starting to feel a little anxious.

 

**Lexa**

Yeah I’d love to

 

**Clarke**

if you still have your bike we could do that

i have a car but i’m trying to be eco-friendly here

 

Through text, Lexa can’t quite decipher whether Clarke is cracking these jokes as her way of trying to make things feel normal, or if she’s actually feeling like things are back to normal.

Lexa won’t complain either way.

 

**Lexa**

I have my bike

I’ll meet you at your place after lunch? 1:30?

 

**Clarke**

i’ll see you then

 

Then, a few minutes later:

 

**Clarke**

:)

 

* * *

 

It takes a little while for them to settle down into conversation, but once it does, it comes easily, naturally, as if they haven’t spent the past two years apart. Clarke is itching to talk about _things,_ the important things, but the two seem to constantly stray from what they really need to discuss.

 

Besides, Clarke doesn’t want to ruin what they have here – the sun is out, Clarke is (relatively) at ease, and there is no one around at the lake today. _Soon._ They’ll talk about things soon.

 

“I’m surprised Marcus Kane didn’t choose you for the solo instead of Vanessa Lee in the first place,” Clarke says, skipping a stone across the still lake.

 

Lexa sits on the blanket, watching Clarke. “I’m not actually a part of the Berkeley orchestra.”

 

Clarke turns to Lexa. “What? What orchestra are you with, then?”

 

Lexa picks at the grass. “I’m not affiliated with any orchestras.” She stares across the lake, squinting a little at the sun. “I stopped playing the violin after I graduated from high school.”

 

There’s a long silence as Clarke just _stares_ at Lexa, not quite believing what she’s hearing. “You had a music scholarship for the University of Manhattan,” she says slowly. Then, she realizes it. “Your parents.”

 

Lexa inhales deeply, nods. “The scholarship was only partial, and they said they would only help me pay for school if I went to Berkeley for the Political Sciences. I couldn’t stand the thought of being eyeballs-deep in student loans like most students in America. And besides, I’d lost –“ she pauses, looking at Clarke, then back down at the ground. “I’d lost my motivation to keep playing, anyway.”

 

Clarke knows the answer to this already, but she asks anyway. “Do you like Poli-Sci?”

 

“Not even for a second,” Lexa admits. “To be honest, I haven’t – I’ve really not enjoyed myself in school.”

 

“That’s not fair,” Clarke says. She throws a stone with the intention of skipping it, but in her anger, she throws it too hard, and it simply sinks.

 

Clarke has been under the impression that Lexa is a success in the violin industry, playing in places like the Carnegie Hall as a regular thing, but to hear that Lexa hasn’t followed her aspirations - to think that Clarke has spent two years doing exactly that while Lexa strayed from her desired course, just because of her parents – it makes Clarke feel sick to her stomach. It makes Clarke feel selfish.

 

It makes Clarke wonder what else Lexa’s parents have forced her to do.

 

Lexa merely hums in response, and Clarke isn’t surprised when she changes the subject.

 

“Do you remember coming here with Wells and Terry, and Terry kept pitching ideas for movies that already existed? The Truman Show, fucking _Star Wars –_ “

 

“Oh, _god_ ,” Clarke says, groaning and sitting beside Lexa. “And Wells called him out on it, then Terry threatened to fight him.”

 

“Wells tried to throw him into the lake and –“

“Terry ended up pulling him down with him,” they both say at the same time, and they’re both laughing, Lexa holding her stomach, and Clarke feels so _good,_ she feels _good_ being here with

Lexa again, but then they lean too close into each other and Lexa is immediately shifting over, laughter quickly fading out.

 

Clarke licks her lips, staring out at the lake again. There’s another silence.

 

“You’ve been doing well, though,” Lexa finally says, looking at Clarke. “I met this frat boy a few weeks back, and he had a tattoo of your King Baby sketch. The one you did, like, three years ago.”

 

“Oh, no way,” Clarke exclaims. “I’m a little upset that it ended up tattooed on a frat boy, but I’ll take what I can get.”

 

“An art exhibit in New York and people permanently tattooing your art on their bodies.” Lexa’s voice sounds a little envious, and Clarke starts to feel sick and selfish again. “You’ve made it.”

 

“I guess.” Clarke shrugs. She meets Lexa’s eyes. “I think you should keep going with your violin-playing. Your Carnegie Hall performance – everyone around me was literally in tears.”

 

Lexa sighs and starts picking at the grass again. “Maybe I will,” she says quietly. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

 

After a few moments of silence, allowing the wind and the trees and the birds to fill it for them, Lexa starts to hum. Clarke can’t quite place the tune, but she thinks it might be Tchaikovsky.

 

When she hums, it washes over Clarke like the whole ocean, and Clarke lets it. There’s no riptide, no seaweed, no animals, no nothing. Just so much water, and she’s floating. Lexa eventually stops humming, and they’re back in silence for a few more minutes. Then, Lexa speaks.

 

“I’m really proud of you, Clarke.” Her voice is gentle, and Clarke glances over at her. Lexa is smiling at Clarke again.

 

Clarke’s heart swells and her eyes start to feel a little misty. She fears that if she speaks, she might start crying, so she just reaches over, takes Lexa’s hand, and Lexa doesn’t move away this time, fingers tightening around Clarke’s hand.

 

They sit like this by the lake, as if they are in high school again, as if everything Lexa has made Clarke feel without even being there is a thing from a dream.

 

* * *

 

Lexa comes home feeling dazed. Her parents are packing away for their retreat when she walks in, her mother being the first to greet her.

 

(Well, _greet_ being a loose term.)

 

“Lexa,” she says, holding a sweater as she walks down the stairs. “Where have you been?”

 

“With a friend,” Lexa says uneasily.

 

Her mother narrows her eyes a little. “What friend?”

 

“A friend from school. She happens to live in Oregon, too,” Lexa lies, “I was just catching up with her.”

 

“Right.” Elizabeth clears her throat. She’s skeptical, but not enough to continue questioning Lexa about it. “We will be back in two weeks. Father Paul would appreciate you coming to the communion once we’re back.”

 

“Okay. Have a good trip.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

The two women stand there, Elizabeth looking as if she wants to speak further, Lexa looking as if she’d like to go up to her room _right now,_ and Elizabeth eventually clears her throat, moving back up to her room. Lexa grabs a glass of water before going up the stairs to her own bedroom.

 

She goes back to her room and lies in her bed, thinking, thinking, thinking. Wells Jaha is having a party tonight, a reunion of sorts, and Lexa is apprehensive about going – she doesn’t know if any of her old high school acquaintances will remember her, and getting drunk around Clarke –

 

Maybe she just won’t drink.

 

_Yeah. I just won’t drink._

 

Lexa grabs American Psycho off her desk and starts reading it again from the beginning. When she feels weird, she likes to reread the beginning part before Pat Bateman starts killing people—when he’s still just a mean, uptight asshole going about his daily life in a really self-centered, robotic way.

 

It calms her down to read about him working out and going to dinner and talking about what everyone’s wearing. It makes her feel like anyone can live a whole life without feeling anything significant for anybody, and still be perfectly okay.

 

(Which is pretty quickly disproven when he starts murdering people later, but it’s nice to think anyone can keep everything all bottled up without repercussion.)

 

* * *

 

The party is in a small suburb just outside the city at Wells’ parent’s house. Pretty much all of Clarke and Lexa’s high school friends go.

 

Currently, Clarke is lying on her stomach on Wells’ bed, and she can hear from outside people saying “Where’s Clarke, where’d she go?”

 

Lexa’s been dragged into a game of sociables, and when Clarke last left her, she was losing pretty badly, which is usually the way it goes when someone goes to a party and says they won’t drink that much.

 

It’s all been a bit much – having Lexa back, seeing everyone again, everyone asking her about school and art and what she’s going to do as a career – Clarke sits in the pitch black room because she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s in there. Tonight is just one of those nights where she doesn’t really have much to say to anyone. She wishes that Lexa was in here, but she also doesn’t, because the two of them are fairly drunk right now and they both know what happened the last time they were fairly drunk at a party.

 

People keep barging in at times, asking how she’s doing, if she feels sick, when she’s coming out, and Clarke is really starting to get irritated by this. All she’s asking for is fifteen minutes of alone time.

 

The door opens for the fifth time in three minutes. Clarke arches her neck to see who it is, ready to tell them that she’s fine and not throwing up.

 

It’s Lexa. Clarke is simultaneously overjoyed and full of dread. One part of her is so excited that Lexa is there that it feels like if she hadn’t showed up just now, Clarke would’ve died, but another part of her feels an impossible sickness at the thought of how long it’ll take to get over whatever is about to happen.

 

Clarke has spent so much of her time trying not to think about her that now, whenever Lexa appears, she feels like she has to start all over again. Clarke sees Lexa and all the work she’s put into forgetting her feels like it was for nothing. She thinks it’s funny how some people can make you feel so drastically at odds. It’s funny how wonderful it feels.

 

“Why’re you by yourself?” Lexa says. Her words aren’t quite slurring together, but it’s enough for someone to recognize that she’s not at all sober.

 

“I’m just tired,” Clarke says.

 

“Finn is looking for you,” she says. Finn is a boy who has been hitting on Clarke all night.

 

Clarke hears the bed squeak and she turns her head to see that Lexa is crawling onto the bed next to her. She tries not to allow the vivid memories of Lexa doing the exact same thing two years ago. Clarke feels her face get hot. She’s sure Lexa doesn’t even realize what she’s doing, and Clarke knows that, but she can’t take it. She really can’t.

 

“Yeah, I know. I don’t really feel like talking to him,” she says, laughing nervously.

 

Lexa looks at Clarke for a really long time.

 

“Why don’t you like him,” she says, kind of whispering. Clarke doesn’t really know why Lexa insists on asking this question. She knows the answer. Clarke is sure she does.

 

“I just kind of want to be alone for now,” Clarke says. She’s having trouble speaking like a normal person, so she’d rather just not talk at all. Her brain feels like it’s short-circuiting.

 

“Do you want me to go?” Lexa starts to move away, and Clarke shakes her head furiously.

 

Lexa lies on her back beside Clarke. Clarke remains on her stomach. The moon peeks through the blinds of Wells’ room, creating lines of light on Lexa’s face, and Clarke just stares at her.

 

“I’m really drunk, Clarke,” Lexa says, closing her eyes and sighing. “I kept getting my ass kicked in beer pong and sociables. I wasn’t going to drink tonight.”

 

“I know,” Clarke says reassuringly. “Do you want to go home?”

 

“No, I want –“ Lexa opens her eyes, meeting Clarke’s, and she doesn’t finish her sentence. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe I should go home.”

 

 _She wants what?_ Clarke wants to grab Lexa’s shoulders, ask her _you want to what,_ but then Lexa is sliding off the bed, stumbling a little, grabbing onto one of Wells’ shelves to steady herself.

 

“I’ll walk you,” Clarke says, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to walk home alone in this state.”

 

“Buddy system,” Lexa says, grinning. “Just like – just like old times.”

 

“Just like old times, yeah,” Clarke says, standing. She looks at the digital clock on Wells’ nightstand to see that it’s 2 in the morning. She’s curious to know how time passed by so quickly.

 

They go out to the living room and say their goodbyes, and while Lexa hugs a few people, Wells pulls Clarke aside.

 

“You’re going home with her? Is that a good idea, Clarke?”

 

“I’m not,” Clarke says. “I’m just walking her home. I’ll either come back here or go back to my place after. I’m not stupid, Wells.”

 

“You guys still haven’t talked about things?”

 

“I –“ Clarke pulls her arm out of Wells’ grip. “We will. When we’re not drunk and it’s not two in the morning.”

 

Wells sighs. “Okay. Text me when you get home safe.”

 

“I will.”

 

She hugs the rest of her friends goodbye, and her and Lexa are quickly moving out the door.

 

Lexa stumbles a little, so Clarke has a firm grip on her waist as they walk, Lexa with an arm around her shoulder.

 

“Clarke.”

 

Clarke hates hearing her name in Lexa’s mouth right now, loose and drunk and careless, but she acknowledges it anyway.

 

“Yeah, Lex?”

 

“I don’t know how to get home.”

 

“I’ve got you,” Clarke says, laughing a little. “Are your parents home?”

 

“No. They went to one of their dumb Christian retreat things,” Lexa says, waving her free hand. “I wouldn’t let you walk me home if they were, they wouldn’t want to see you –“

 

A freezing pause. Clarke is going to need Lexa to stop half-finishing her sentences soon before she blows.

 

“Why not?” Clarke says quietly.

 

Lexa doesn’t speak for a bit. They walk in silence as Clarke tries to think of ways to finish Lexa’s sentence. Why Lexa’s parents don’t want to see her.

 

“I might throw up,” Lexa says finally. Clarke stops them where they are, breaking away from her.

 

“Seriously?”

 

Lexa sways a little, and then she shakes her head. “No, nevermind.” Her arm is immediately back around Clarke’s shoulders. “I wan’ go home.”

 

Clarke’s about to snap at Lexa, tell her to finish her sentence, but Lexa is drunk and Clarke’s worry for her overwhelms any kind of anger she may feel.

 

They’ll talk. Soon.

 

They finally manage to get to Lexa’s house, and Lexa doesn’t even bother taking her shoes off before she separates herself from Clarke and stumbles up the stairs. Clarke peels her sandals off and follows.

When she gets to Lexa’s bedroom, Lexa is on her back on her bed, blankets scattered all around her. Clarke starts to feel hot again as she remembers how they were in this exact situation two years ago, roles reversed.

 

Instead of climbing on top of Lexa, she lies down beside her. It seems that maybe Lexa has passed out.

 

Clarke checks her breathing (she’s breathing) and turns her on her side (Lexa makes a little grunting noise when she does and Clarke pretty much wants to die), and settles down beside her.

 

Her phone buzzes, and she sees a rather passive aggressive text from Wells wondering if she’s home yet, and she chooses not to respond.

 

Clarke looks at her lock screen after she reads the message. It’s a photo of the earth. She looks at the picture of the earth and feels absolutely foolish, truly silly, about ever thinking that she’s even significant enough to try and win Lexa over again. Here she is, one small, tiny, stern, worked-up human, struggling with another small tiny worked-up human, when meanwhile Clarke is just one small tiny human in an endless sea of billions all crammed onto a blue rock hurtling through space.

 

She feels stupid for even bothering.

 

But then Clarke thinks of how Lexa is the most important thing she can possibly imagine. And if she’s even a little bit important to Lexa, too, then she feels extremely significant. And it really doesn’t matter that the earth is big – that really shouldn’t serve as a reason for why Clarke feels insignificant.

 

Clarke then realizes that life is not absurd – it’s heart-wrenching and beautiful and vital and exciting and disappointing and all-consuming. It can separate people like Clarke and Lexa for two years, only to accidentally reunite them at a violin concert that Lexa may not even have performed at in the first place.

 

She looks at her lock screen again, and this time, she remembers that Lexa is proud of her. Clarke looks at her lock screen, and she doesn’t see an apathetic blue rock full of silly self-important humans – she sees a beautiful blue ocean of small vital atoms, all working hard to make each other happy and bearable. And she feels important. And she feels necessary. She feels a part of something larger, and beautiful.

 

Suddenly, Lexa shifts beside her, and Clarke decides that she needs to leave, _right now,_ because she cannot be in this situation again – alone in a dark bedroom, a little drunk, with Lexa Woods beside her.

 

She stands up, going around the bed to take Lexa’s shoes off for her. Lexa’s wearing a dress – hopefully comfortable enough for her to sleep in through the night. Clarke places the sheet over top of Lexa, and goes downstairs to grab a glass of water and an aspirin. When she comes back, Lexa seems to be half-awake, and she’s watching Clarke move as she places the water and aspirin beside her.

 

After a moment of hesitation, Clarke moves down to press her lips to Lexa’s forehead. “Night, Lexa.”

 

“You’re leaving?” Lexa mumbles.

 

“It’s not a good idea for me to stay,” Clarke says honestly. “I think we both know that.”

 

She turns toward Lexa’s bedroom door, but then Lexa is speaking again.

 

“Why are you so nice to me, Clarke?”

 

Clarke doesn’t turn around for a moment, a lump forming in her throat and her hands starting to feel clammy. She looks down at the ground, then turns to look at Lexa. The light from the hallway is all they have, and Clarke can see that Lexa is patiently waiting for her to respond.

 

“You know why.”

 

Lexa just keeps staring.

 

They stay here like this, Lexa looking at Clarke and Clarke looking at Lexa, hovering in her doorframe, heart beating out of her chest.

 

Lexa can’t not know. After all this time, she can’t not know. Clarke is trying to be smart about something for the first time in her life and not irreparably fuck up for the sake of just saying what she wants to but then it isn’t her choice anymore, she’s speaking before she thinks, and then she knows it’s too late and she knows, she knows she should’ve leapt up and hurried out of the room as soon as Lexa woke up again.

 

“You know I love you, Lexa.”

 

Lexa _stares_ at Clarke, and Clarke can already see the tears starting in those stupid green eyes, and she can’t stand it anymore, she can’t stand being here without being with Lexa, and Clarke decides to leave before giving her a chance to speak.

 

She turns the hallway light off and goes downstairs, putting her sandals back on, and is out of Lexa’s door in a matter of seconds.

 

Clarke opts to take the long way home, through the forest, and suddenly she’s running running running home, not caring about the fact that her feet are starting to hurt and her head is still spinning a little from the alcohol and she’s not entirely sure that this is the correct way home.

 

After a few minutes, she stops in the middle of the path.

 

She feels the whole forest ache around her frame.

 

She wants to make everyone who feels as lonely as she feels right now feel unlonely.

 

 

Her insides balk at the improbability of it all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because this is torturous  
> electricity between both of us  
> and this is dangerous  
> because i want you so much  
> but i hate your guts  
> i hate you.

 

Lexa has taken the liberty of her parents not being home to start practicing her violin again, before her appointment with Anya.

 

She takes pieces out that she hasn’t played in years, buying new sheet music online, practicing until the skin on her fingertips have almost broken from pressing the strings.

 

_You know I love you, Lexa._

 

_You know I love you, Lexa._

 

_You know I love you, Lexa._

 

Clarke’s words beat against Lexa as if she is being punched in the gut with every replay in her mind. It’s been two nights since, and she still feels Clarke’s words viscerally, vividly.

 

When the time comes, Lexa puts her violin down, running cold water along her fingertips until the ache subsides a little. She sits down on the closed toilet seat, head buried in her hands. She sits there, alone in the bathroom, alone in her vast house.

 

She wonders if she should call Costia, apologize for how she treated her during their semester, but she knows it would just be a failed attempt at trying to make herself feel a little less lonely.

 

That’s the thing with loneliness – it doesn’t matter how many people try to fill the hole in her chest, because it’s in the shape of one specific person. No one else will quite fit right.

 

* * *

 

**Two Years Ago**

 

Lexa comes home in a blurred stumble at five in the morning, still feeling Clarke on her lips, on her body, everywhere inside her. When she gets to her front door, she knows she has to be quiet - her parents would relentlessly question her if she showed up back home at five in the morning. She can’t handle that. Not right now.

 

But when she quietly unlocks her door and enters, her mother is sitting there in the living room, presumably just having woken up for work.

 

“Fuck,” Lexa whispers.

 

Her mother looks up.

 

“Alexandria?” She raises her eyebrows. “What are you doing back so early?”

 

“I –“ Lexa starts to choke on her words again, anxiety bubbling up from deep inside of her stomach, leeching around her lungs and her throat.

 

Her mother rises from the couch, placing her coffee mug and newspaper down on the table.

 

“Were you not at Clarke Griffin’s house?”

 

“I was,” Lexa says silently.

 

Then, her mother looks down from Lexa’s eyes to her neck. Her eyes wander down and Lexa realizes _exactly_ what it is she is looking at.

 

She doesn’t even have the energy to try and cover the hickies with her hands. _So stupid. I’m so stupid. Why why why why why –_

 

Elizabeth walks towards her, still eyeing her neck. “Alexandria.” Her voice is tense, low, and Lexa begins to quiver. Elizabeth’s eyes move up to meet Lexa’s. “What is that from.”

 

It’s a question that Lexa must answer. There is no skirting around it.

 

She tries to skirt around it regardless.

 

“I just – some boy tried to – and then I –“

 

Her mother raises a hand to silence her. Lexa remains silent.

 

“Do you take me as someone who is daft?”

 

“No,” Lexa whispers, eyes filling with tears.

 

“Did you – _sleep_ – with Clarke Griffin?”

 

A long pause. Lexa looks down at the floor. She has never hated herself more.

 

“Yes,” she whispers. “I did.”

 

* * *

 

**P** **resent Day**

 

Clarke is on the tail end of her 10-mile run.

 

 _500 meters._ Lexa’s eyes with the hallway light reflecting off of them.

 

 _400 meters._ Lexa squeezing Clarke’s hand by the lake as she tells her she is proud of her.

 

 _300 meters._ Lexa, timid and quiet, in grade 9, looking at Clarke with gratitude in her eyes as they become partners for their English project.

 

 _200 meters._ Lexa holding Clarke as she falls apart after her father dies. Lexa holding Clarke and kissing the top of her head. Lexa telling Clarke she won’t leave.

 

Clarke feels like her legs are about to fall off, but she decides to start sprinting for the last 100 meters. She runs up to a crabapple tree near her house, which sits at the top of an expansive hill, always green and always different from everything.

 

When she runs, she’s not a student, or an artist, or anything. She’s not even a strange girl suffering on purpose half the time and calling it art, kissing everything who shows her the least bit of attention in blind faith, hoping they’ll be the person who will make her stop living so often inside of herself, worrying so often about everyone and everything.

 

Clarke isn’t even confused when she runs. She’s a perfect, impossible age; she’s 11 years old and no one expects anything realistic of her. Her main job is to be someone else’s tenuous proof that happiness exists.

 

She’s 16 years old and chasing Lexa up the hill, and the winner gets nothing but bragging rights, but that’s okay because it’s not like Clarke makes enough money doing the newspaper run to make monetary bets, anyway.

 

She runs up the hill to the crabapple tree, then she stops near the edge where a gravel road winds towards a townhouse and looks at the vast blueness extending eternally where the hill dips.

 

She allows her breathing to slow as she circles the tree, allowing her heart to settle down from the run.

 

Her phone buzzes, alerting her that she has met her goal for today.

 

Clarke sits against the crabapple tree, leaning her head against it, and every emotion that she has been avoiding since two nights ago comes at her in a merciless rush.

 

“Fuck,” she whispers, the tears immediately beginning to stream down her cheeks, sobs already starting to rack her body.

 

 _Here._ Lexa and Clarke holding hands as they stumble down the hill together. Lexa and Clarke forgetting that they have an essay due tomorrow and staying up all night together working on it.

 

She looks up and sees that there’s a small gray baby bird standing on the edge of a thin tree branch, and it looks like it’s about to jump and try to fly for the first time - but it just stays there chirping until its mother comes back.

 

* * *

 

Lexa feels strange being back in Anya’s office space. She nervously fidgets as Anya makes a cup of green tea for her, halfway through their session.

 

“She told me she loved me.”

 

Anya pours the hot water into their respective mugs. “And is that the first you’ve even touched on your relationship together since that night two years ago?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What did you say in response?”

 

“Nothing. I didn’t know what to say. I was drunk.”

 

Anya waits for the tea to steep, turning to Lexa. “Do you love her back, Lexa?”

 

Lexa ignores the question. “You know, I hate Bukowski, but I remember something that he - something he said in an interview once, something about how you’d be surprised at how much blood there is in a person, it just keeps coming and coming, and it’s purple. That’s kind of how I feel,” she says.

 

Anya passes her the mug, and takes a seat at the armchair across from Lexa. “How do you mean?”

 

“Kind of like – you’d be surprised at how long and relentless something can hurt. It just keeps coming and coming. And it’s purple.”

 

Anya leans back against her armchair. “What hurts?”

 

“I don’t know what to do with my life anymore. I know I can’t do political sciences for much longer before I lose my mind. Playing the violin again, it feels – it feels good. Like it’s the right thing to be doing.”

 

“And your parents remain unsupportive.”

 

“Of course they do.” Lexa is starting to feel irritated – it feels as if their session has been going around in circles, but she knows full well that it is her own fault for avoiding Anya’s questions like she has been. “All they care about is how they look to their friends.

 

“You didn’t answer my previous question.”

 

“Because I don’t want to.” Her irritation turns into fear, which then turns into a deep, hollow kind of sadness.

 

“Lexa, why did you really call me?” Anya leans forward. “We have yet to go in-depth about anything you have started telling me about.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Lexa says indignantly.

 

“I know you got into a fight with your new friend, Costia, but I don’t know what it was about. I know your parents have been expressing their disinterest in your interests, but I don’t know how they have done so. I know that the girl you once called your best friend admitted she was in love with you, but you have yet to tell me how you feel about it. You are absolutely allowed to not tell me whatever it is you are not telling me, but off the record, in order to be productive, we should try to discuss how you feel instead of creating a vague narrative.”

 

“I called you because I’m sad.” Lexa’s voice starts to rise, ever-so-slightly.

 

“About what?”

 

“ _Stop_ that.” Lexa is half-yelling. “I’m trying to tell you, but you keep – I shouldn’t have called you, this was a huge mistake.”

 

“Do you love her, Lexa?”

 

Lexa starts to _really_ yell. She stands from her seat on the couch.

 

“Of _course_ I fucking love her! She became the most important part of my _entire_ life after less than a year. I love her so much that I’m okay with whatever the fuck it is that happens to me as long as I know she’s alright and she’s doing fine and she never has to – she never has to feel the kind of pain I feel –“

 

Anya merely stares at Lexa.

 

“I love her,” Lexa repeats, her voice now weak and quiet and defeated and heavy. “I love her. I love her. I can’t believe I ever thought anything would change that.”

 

* * *

 

**Two Years Ago**

 

Lexa sits on the couch, her parents sitting in chairs in front of her.

 

“You are to not stay out late anymore. No sleepovers. A 10pm curfew,” Howard says. “If you come home looking like you’ve even had a _sip_ of alcohol, we’ll know.”

 

Elizabeth cuts in. “I don’t want to see you near that Clarke Griffin girl again.”

 

Lexa grits her teeth. She stares at the floor as she nods stiffly.

 

“What were you thinking, Alexandria?” Elizabeth says. “This is what alcohol does to you – I _knew_ I should have said something when I suspected you were drinking – I knew teenagers drank these days, but you –“ Elizabeth lowers her voice, as if she is afraid the neighbors will hear, as if she is committing a sin just by _saying_ the words out loud. “ _Had relations_ with _Clarke Griffin,_ a _girl_ –“

 

Howard shakes his head, rubbing his temple with his left hand.

 

“We should never have let you switch schools, I don’t know what that sorry excuse of a psychiatrist was _thinking_ when she recommended –“ Elizabeth pauses. “Did Doctor Lachman know?”

 

Lexa shakes her head once, still looking at the ground.

 

Elizabeth continues. “I’ve always known Clarke Griffin was trouble. Her and her strange inclinations towards _art –_ who _does_ that anymore, what do her parents think they’re doing, letting her pursue it –“

 

“Isn’t her father deceased?” Howard murmurs.

 

Lexa feels fire in her stomach.

 

“That explains it all,” Elizabeth says, tittering. “She’s lashing out. It explains why she would come on to Alexandria like this.”

 

Howard hums in response.

 

“I would suggest we talk to her mother, but she’s always seemed a little odd, too, always working and never home –“ Elizabeth turns back to Lexa. “What were you _thinking,_ Alexandria? Are you angry with us? We should go to Father Paul about this –“

 

“Absolutely not,” Howard says. “Imagine what he would have to say to us. Aboslutely not.” Howard looks at Lexa. “We will speak no further about this. I am _absolutely disgusted_ with this, but – you are still my daughter. All we can do is pray that you will find repentance with God for what you have done.”

 

“Go back to your room,” Elizabeth says. “You heard our conditions. I will call you down for dinner.”

 

Lexa stands, fire still roaring in her stomach.

 

She goes upstairs and sits on her floor.

 

She goes upstairs. She wants an answer. She wants Clarke to tell her like she always does, tell her there’s a noble, just reason for this, that it isn’t the end of anything, that everything is fixable somehow, and that there’s a better angle from which to view everything, but that isn’t true this time. This time, it is so glaringly false, and there is no reason, there is no better angle, there is just evil.

 

Lexa is staring evil in the face, and there is no better way to look at it.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

 

Clarke is at a party again.

 

It’s been four days since she told Lexa she loved her, but she’s not obligated to think about that.

 

Wells comes up to her, sufficiently drunk, and gives her a great hug. “You’re my best friend,” he slurs.

 

“Alright, Wells.”

 

“Seriously.” Wells pulls away, grabs Clarke’s face inbetween his hands. “I care about you and your well-being. So stop being, like un-well-being.”

 

“Okay, Wells,” Clarke says, laughing. He takes his hands off her face and slings a strong arm around her shoulders.

 

“I have to introduce you to Jasper, the host,” he says, leading her towards a brown-haired boy. The apartment isn’t that big, and it’s crammed with at least 45 people. Clarke feels a little claustrophobic, but a little better when they get to the kitchen, which has a lot less people in it.

 

“I already know Jasper. We went to high school together, Wells.” Clarke says, starting to push against Wells’ arm. “He tried to make out with me at your party the other day.”

 

“Oh, shit, him?” Wells says, stopping, but Jasper has already seen Clarke and Wells and saunters his way over.

 

“Hi,” he says. He’s not quite as drunk as Wells.

 

“Hello,” she says, and Wells awkwardly walks off to a girl who excitedly calls his name.

 

“Sorry about the other night,” Finn says, scratching the back of his neck. “I was really drunk. I’m usually never like that.”

 

“It’s fine,” Clarke says, sipping her drink and looking around the room to see if she can just get out of here.

 

Suddenly, a couple starts to make out next to them.

 

“Ugh,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes. Finn grimaces.

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

“I’m – I’m gonna get out of here,” Clarke says, eyeing the couple.

 

“It’s not any less crowded out there,” Finn says. “Here, let me – come on.”

 

He starts walking away, and Clarke knows she shouldn’t follow him, but he’s already apologized and seems like a sincere enough kid. Plus, she’s _really_ starting to feel crowded and frustrated.

 

They head outside of the apartment and run up some truly suspicious looking staircases, with a strange abstract grayness all about. They spiral their way up and come to a low-ceiling summit with a pull-down attic door, not unlike Clarke’s room back home. Jasper leaps and grabs the little doorknob, pulls it down, and unfurls the small ladder.

 

“After you,” he says. This is all getting unnervingly romantic and Clarke thinks how it’s going to be past the point of no return pretty soon if she doesn’t speak up, but it’s hard because Finn looks awfully hopeful and she truly does respect him and doesn’t want to fuck up our friendship, considering all of her other relationships at present are a bit tenuous.

 

She climbs up the ladder and pokes her head out. They’re six stories about everything, and the landscape, the buildings, the hills, the little market on 29th street, are illuminated by streetlights and window lights and LED phone screens – it’s endless and everywhere.

 

Clarke and Finn sit near the ledge in silence for a bit.

 

Finnlooks at Clarke. She’s afraid to look back at him because she knows he’ll kiss her but she can feel him looking at her, his eyes burning into the side of her face, and she can feel the lonely dripping off him, she can sense the misery, he’s too desperate to be safe and Clarke can tell and she should really get up and leave him here, and let him do whatever he has to do alone.

 

But then it’s too late. Finncups her face between his hands and she feels too bad to pull away, so she lets him kiss her once, but then she kisses her again, then again, and with too much tongue, and too aggressive, and she thinks _Lexa would never do this to me,_ and Finn is forcing his hand up Clarke’s shirt even though her hand is on his arm. She is trying to put obvious pressure on him as a clear sign that he needs to stop right now and this has gone way beyond charity.

 

Clarke moves her head away from his and wriggles out from underneath him, slipping out in the space between them.

 

She runs towards the hatch and hurries a bit unstably down the ladder. Clarke doesn’t hear footsteps coming after her, not that she really expected to, but she doesn’t, and she wonders what Finn is doing up there. Probably sitting by the edge of the roof, emotionally wondering why it didn’t work. Why her mouth didn’t taste like love at all.

 

She feels like Finn should know better than anyone that he can’t just make it happen – love is as heavy and impossible as magic is but vastly, oppositely different. He cannot trick anyone into believing it’s happening unless it really is, and it definitely wasn’t just now and they both know it.

 

He just wanted someone to save him or destroy him or make him feel unlonely.

 

Clarke can feel a building in her throat and realizes she’s crying. She doesn’t really know why, because she’s mostly okay right now. She sprints down the scary staircase, heads outside, and she loves the cold air and the space to breath and the fact that Finn is far away because now he is now longer a boy, just a nightmare, and he will follow her similarly, never tangibly there but somehow always present, and Clarke will fear what didn’t happen and what could’ve happened and the unfairness of her escape forever.

 

She sprints towards the hill she ran up yesterday, past the lake, up the hill. She thinks of walking down to the horse-barn at the foot of the hill, but she spends too much time there for it to be any sort of deviation into the extreme.

 

Then she remembers the now-condemned abandoned Catholic Church at the far end of the road, St. Thomas Aquinas.

 

She can see the top of the black church spires as she crests the hill. Clarke checks her watch. 2am.

 

This is the stuff out of horror movies, she thinks, as her footsteps echo along the weathered walls. It’s been set to be demolished next week – but they must not have finished packing everything up, yet. Clarke squeezes in through the ‘DO NOT ENTER’ fence, and enters the church, turning the light switch on.

 

She walks down the lavender-carpeted aisles, slides into one of the dark mahogany pews.

 

Clarke opens an old Missal and flips to today’s gospel. She reads over it about three times, waiting for it to mean something to her, because she wants this one to be special – she wants to feel something important, like there is someone watching over her, _anything._ She wants to take it seriously, and she wants to feel foolish and safe. But it doesn’t mean anything.

 

She moves to the front of the church, where people go to pray, and kneels in front of the podium. She hasn’t prayed since she was 16, at her grandfather’s Christian funeral, but she decides to give it a shot, anyway. No one else would listen.

 

She asks God to keep Lexa safe and happy.

 

She thanks him for letting her get away from Finn.

 

She waits to feel like someone is listening.

 

She feels stupid for bothering.

 

She doesn’t care.

 

She wants to be a good person.

 

Clarke kneels there, waiting, and she knows that it’s futile.

 

She knows what she has to do now.

 

* * *

 

By the time Clarke gets to Lexa’s house, it’s three in the morning.

 

She gives the door a few gentle knocks at first, but after there’s no response, she knocks louder, and louder.

 

The door opens and Clarke is presented with a rather sleepy-looking Lexa Woods, and before Lexa can even open her mouth to say anything, Clarke is speaking. Clarke could start with the niceties, put up the “best friends” act again, but she is weary, too weary, to pretend.

 

“Why did you leave.” Her eyes are bleak, tired. She knew the facade would break sooner or later – but not this soon.

 

“Clarke, it’s three in the morn –“

 

“Why did you leave me alone in my bed. Do you know what that did to me?”

 

“Clarke.” Lexa says her name as if it is a whispered prayer, a name too sacred to say any louder. She stands in her doorway, clad in a t-shirt and pyjama shorts, and Clarke is slightly shivering outside from the cold. “I was so scared. Please. I’m sorry.”

 

“You didn’t even text me. You didn’t call me. You didn’t grant me the human decency of letting me know you were leaving.” Clarke shakes her head. “ _I was scared_ isn’t a good enough excuse, Lexa. Not this time.”

 

“I don’t know what else to say –“

 

“Why did you leave?! _”_ Clarke yells, not caring about the neighbors she could potentially wake up, the cold, any of it.

 

“You don’t know what it was like!” Lexa is yelling right back. “My parents found out. They found out, you don’t know what it was like being there as they told me how disgusting I was, how it was my fault, how disgusted everyone else would be if they found out – I hated myself for years, I didn’t let myself feel anything for anyone after you. Then you – you just _come back to me_ after it all, and I – I didn’t know what to do.”

 

Clarke gazes at Lexa, her lips parted.

 

“If I’d known –“ Clarke’s voice is hoarse. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Lexa stares at Clarke and it looks like she’s about to cry, and Clarke panics because that would probably be the worst thing that’s ever happened to her, but then Lexa doesn’t cry.

 

Lexa leans towards Clarke instead, she grabs her face and she is kissing Clarke and Clarke is so weak so she kisses her back and she kisses her again and her body is shaking, and it’s not because it’s cold anymore, it’s because Lexa is beautiful and she shouldn’t be doing this and Clarke shouldn’t be letting her but she is, and she is useless to stop it, all of it, the swelling illumination in her chest, how it warms her whole body.

 

When they pull apart, Clarke’s eyes are still closed, and she feels Lexa rest her forehead against Clarke’s own.

 

“I love you, Clarke,” Lexa says. “I’m sorry. Please come inside.”

 

Clarke licks her lips, moves away from Lexa’s grasp, and nods. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

They get up to Lexa’s room, and they stand there, facing each other, in the dark. Clarke’s hand rises to brush against Lexa’s jawline, and Lexa moves her cheek towards the touch.

 

“Please don’t leave again,” Clarke whispers, moving her head towards Lexa. Lexa shakes her head, placing her arms around Clarke’s waist.

 

“I won’t.”

 

Their lips meet again, Clarke kissing Lexa fully, without the urgency of their first night together, without the unsureness of it all.

 

They move to the bed, Clarke laying Lexa down underneath her, running her hand down the length of her body, every movement deliberate, careful, as if this is their last night together (and for all Clarke knows, it might be). She kisses her again, and rolls over to lie beside her. Lexa shifts, placing her head on Clarke's chest, Clarke's arm underneath her.

 

They lie there in silence. Clarke looks at Lexa and she wants to tell her more important things. She looks at Lexa's face, still slightly streaked with tears. 

 

Clarke falls asleep and thinks that Lexa probably knows everything she'd want to tell her right now, anyway. 


End file.
